All Fall Down
by LithiumDoll
Summary: Well, no, life wasn't really much like an empty bottle of beer ... [complete]
1. Part 1

Time: Post S4

Thank you: Mitchy – beta extraordinaire who went way, way above and beyond the call of duty to make this readable.

Disclaimer: If you recognise a name, they're not mine. No profit being made, etc etc. Highlander property of someone who isn't me.

Feedback: Treasured.

-o-

Well, no, life wasn't really much like an empty bottle of beer. But it wasn't much like a box of chocolates either, so his analogy had at least as much validity as a trite Hollywoodism. Okay, so that wasn't exactly something to celebrate in and of itself, but his version also had the benefit of experimenting with the simile in an enjoyable fashion that wouldn't leave him diabetic and thirty pounds over-weight. Destitute with alcohol poisoning, maybe, but it wasn't really as if he had to worry all that much about either fate.

"Either you've had too much or I haven't had enough." Joe grinned and pushed a fresh bottle across the bar, then claimed the empty that Methos had spent the last ten minutes staring at. "Five thousand years and the best you come up with is 'Life is like an empty bottle of beer'?"

Of course, now his assessment had been challenged, he felt the need to defend it. Unfortunately, all the correlations he was coming up with were as morose as he felt, and that wasn't something he particularly felt the need to burden the Watcher with. He picked at the new label and matched the other man's tone for lightness. "I could explain it but the sheer profundity would be too much for you. I'll tell you when you're older."

The answering snort bought a grudging grin and he glanced up from the sticky paper being methodically shredded under his fingernails. That was a mistake; Joe's gaze caught his own and held it firmly. "What's the problem? You can tell me, I'm a licensed bar tender."

"There has to be a problem for me to spend a little time ..."

"Six hours", Joe interjected with a pointed tap of his wristwatch.

"...in the company of ..."

"Nothing but beer"

"...friends?"

"You're brooding."

"I'm not allowed an occasional quiet evening? MacLeod sulked for a decade; I didn't see you picking on him."

"First - he wasn't sulking, he was grieving, and second - that was a little before my time. As you well know. So, what's the problem? You can tell me, I'm a licensed bar tender who can cut you off if you don't spill."

"You're a hard man, Joseph."

Joe nodded agreeably and crossed his arms, leaning on the bar and making a show of settling down to wait for an answer. The Watcher hadn't been slow to learn when he could push and when he couldn't, to the extent Methos had taken to using him as a mental barometer on occasions. This behaviour would indicate he was closer to Adam and Adam was easy enough to cajole so, with a huff of breath more for appearance than real irritation, he raised his hands slightly and surrendered.

"Hypothetically speaking, if you had a friend, who had an acquaintance, who would shortly be arriving in town, and you were willing to bet not only your head but a fine set of kitchen knives that they would manage to incite, say, a Scottishly inclined person to the point of swinging a sword with little or no effort, but you really shouldn't let that happen ... wouldn't you think the best course of action would be to visit the scenic islands of Tahiti for a few years?"

Joe looked up, he assumed the man was taking a few moments to insert mental punctuation in the run-on sentence, and then looked back shaking his head. "Mac's not going to Challenge your friend, he wouldn't do that."

"I didn't say friend, I said acquaintance. And, also, I didn't say it was my acquaintance." A beat and he grumbled under his breath for a moment before admitting "Fine, yes, but please don't throw the word 'friend' around. I've known rabid bears that would make better friends than him. I called one 'Silas'."

The Watcher looked momentarily nonplussed, then shrugged and reached for a beer of his own. "Who is it? We have them on file?"

Idly he began to trace a pattern in the condensation on the bottle and watched it bead and glitter in the low light. It was pretty and, coincidently, a fascinating and aesthetic way to avoid looking at the other man. "You should do, I made sure his name was dropped a long time ago. Doyle, Michael."

"Michael Doyle?!" Joe's words were forced into a hiss by the presence of people close enough to overhear, but he still managed to convey the impression of shouting. "Holy … He's a walking disaster. I'm sorry man, but Mac would be doing everyone a favour if he put him down. Hell, I'd even have stood in the cheering section for St. Cloud if _he'd_ tried it."

The tone forced him to look back up and he wasn't surprised to see Joe looked about as agitated as his tone. He tried to radiate sincerity, it wasn't hard given it was entirely real. "And you have no argument from me. The problem is I owe him something like a favour."

"Enough like a favour that you'd get in the way of him being killed?"

"And die screaming, I suspect, when MacLeod decided it was worth going through me. Or, even worse, he'd let Michael go and spend the next century giving me significant looks suggesting I should be wallowing in guilt."

Joe was quiet for a long moment as he began to stack the empties on the tray beside him. Finally he seemed to reach a conclusion and stopped, wiping his hands on the cloth hanging over his shoulder. "You want my advice?"

"No, I thought I'd tell you all this so you'd have the full story to put in my Chronicle post mortem. Give it a suitably stirring title - 'Should Have Caught Flight 18 Out Of Paris', or something."

He slumped further down in his stool, transferring his picking to the varnish of the bar top until his hand was swiped away with a pointed look from the owner.

"Tell Mac the situation before the guy gets here; don't leave it until he's hunting. You know how Immortals get when they're locked in; nothing gets in the way of the target. I mean, talk about single-minded."

As Joe didn't appear to be registering the irony, he waved with a bright smile. "Hello. Oldest living Immortal. Sitting right here - armed and single-minded."

"Sorry, man. Sometimes I forget. You want awe and respect, you should probably grow a long beard or something."

"So, to re-cap, your advice would be to confess all to the Church of MacLeod and cultivate facial hair?"

Joe grinned and spoke over his shoulder as he carried the tray towards the back. "Yeah, that's pretty much it."

He stood slightly and leaned over the bar to call after Joe. "Life is like an empty beer bottle, it leaves a lingering taste of bitterness." The audience was uncaring; Joe just shook his head and disappeared around to corner to the kitchens.

And he was alone again. The bottle label had lost its always dubious charms and the press of humanity was beginning to irritate rather than distract. It was time to go, if only back to the apartment where he could sulk, think even, without being interrogated.

It wasn't until he was sliding off the stool he had called home that the first hint of another Immortal began to slide across his awareness. Instinctively he considered trying to back out of range, but there was a bar behind him and, besides, it was already strengthening.

Vaguely he was aware Joe had returned and begun to speak, but the man had quietened quickly. Of course, he'd recognise the signs by now. The door opened and the bouncer beside it smiled to whoever was entering. It was almost certainly MacLeod but it never paid to become complacent.

Ever.

Well, once, but that had been three thousand years ago and she had been an extremely attractive exception that proved the rule. He kept his hand inside his coat and his fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword until MacLeod at last stepped into view.

After pausing to let his eyes adjust, MacLeod clocked them and smiled, then began to make his way with the minimum of ripples across the small but enthusiastically packed dance floor.

It seemed fairly pointless to attempt to leave now, so he reclaimed his seat as Joe greeted his charge with a grin and a bottle of beer. "We were just talking about you."

"Should I be worried?" MacLeod glanced between them, the sober expression he habitually wore belied by the gleam of amusement in his eyes.

"Naw, Adam was looking to talk to you."

"Adam was, was he?"

Both men studiously ignored Methos as they continued.

"Yep, he said it was pretty important."

"Did he? Should I be worried now?"

"Probably, you did bring your sword, right?"

He rolled his eyes and looked up from his reclaimed bottle; Joe really had given an entirely new meaning to 'Don't interfere'. "Adam is still armed and single-minded, Joe."

The Watcher chuckled under his breath and took a tray laden with bottles in hand to go water the band, leaving the Immortals in relative privacy.

MacLeod took an easy seat on the stool next to the one Adam had spent the last six hours planted on and waited in companionable silence for an explanation to be given. Adam suspected he probably wouldn't wait forever which, really, was unfortunate as he was still attempting to construct a sentence that wouldn't find him on the receiving end of a respectable Scottish tirade.

'My mate Mick is coming to town … Mick? Oh you know, Mick. He's the one who carried the Plague to villages for fun and profit. Had a pet rat called Christopher because they travelled so much …?'

No, that probably wasn't the way to approach it. There really was no good way to say this at all. He felt his expression begin to harden, the armour of Methos coming unbidden to cover the weaker Adam against a threat he was still only half serious about; saw MacLeod react to the change with a wary frown and tried to reverse the process. Time to stop playing games with your own mind, old man; it takes you at your word.

He was half successful, settling back into the relaxed sprawl habitual to Adam but unable to keep the edge from his tone as he finally spoke.

"Michael Doyle is coming to Paris; he may even be here already. He isn't a friend, but we do have a certain amount of history. I realise he is the lowest form of scum on earth but if you hunt him I may have to try and stop you, which I'd really prefer to avoid as I've never been a great proponent of personal harm."

MacLeod's forehead furrowed further, complete confusion in every line. "Who's Michael Doyle?"

The disbelief wouldn't be contained, sabotaging any chance he had to back out and count his blessings. "What do you mean, 'who's Michael Doyle?' You've never heard of him?"

"No, but I'm about to." MacLeod smiled but injected just enough command into his good-natured tone to make it clear backing out wasn't an option.

It was probably just as well - however the man had managed to live four centuries without coming across the name, it wasn't healthy for anyone if he remained ignorant.

"He's an Immortal with a flair for destruction on a massive scale. Not to property, to people. I suppose you could consider him an early form of biological warfare. I first came across him in the fourteenth century, but I imagine he's refined his methods since then. Essentially, he'd allow himself to catch something virulent and then go wherever he was paid to. Simplicity in action … I don't think the money meant much to him, honestly. More of a vocation with perks."

MacLeod's eyes were wide. He wasn't old enough to remember the horror of fourteenth century Europe and the death of one third of its population, but he was old enough to have seen the effects of the sporadic outbreaks of the seventeenth century. "Why hasn't anyone taken his head?"

"Probably because they couldn't catch him. He doesn't have any interest in the Game that I know of, so no compunction to stick around when he's Challenged. And I imagine if he can't run, he plays dirty."

"Like you." MacLeod smiled the not-quite smile again, this time there was hardness in his eyes as well, not quite suspicion but ready to go there. "Why are you protecting him?"

There was a question to steer clear of, so Adam chose to be affronted by the comparison. "Like me, but please note I'm not clinically insane and predisposed towards global genocide. It's an important distinction I want to make clear before you go on a rampage."

"I'm not going on a rampage."

"Not yet but I have faith in your consistency."

MacLeod had begun to relax into humouring, but now he tensed warily again. "There's more?"

How quickly they learned.

"There's always more." Methos passed a hand over his eyes and faced the unpleasant prospect that he may have to give away just a little more about his own history than he had really wanted to.

_The spring had been kind, but the weather had been cooler than he'd remembered it being for some time. Still, Sicily was beautiful whatever the temperature. The orchards were blooming in reds and pinks with the promise of fruit in the months to come and the green vines were slowly deepening in colour as their harvests of grapes and olives grew upon them. The farm was a far cry from the glories of some places he'd lived and further still from some places he'd have preferred to forget, but he was proud and even warily happy to call it home._

"_Mattio, you will grow roots and bear sour apples if you sit with such a frown any longer."_

_He laughed and pulled his woman down to the ground with him, softening her fall with his body and holding her close. He loved this land, but he loved this woman laughing with him more. He could imagine leaving neither which, he knew, was a dangerous thing. More dangerous still was the place of the sword, held over the door rather than sheathed at his side. But he could not bring himself to care, not today._

"_See what you've done to my dress? You will have to sew me a new one."_

_Dark eyes teased him as a red mouth pouted. He laid kisses over them all, promising the finest dress she had ever seen if she would lay by his side and watch the clouds in the sky._

"_And will the sky tend the vines? Will the clouds feed us in the winter?"_

_But she had lain as he had asked; letting him plait her hair with the tolerant bemusement she gave to each of his strange affections._

_In the winter he buried her there, under the clouds and amidst the barren skeletons of trees._

"Tell me." The memory was cold and MacLeod's voice was warm as it intruded; it felt odd to be thawed into speech.

"He came to Sicily in the late thirteen-forties, when he left the island was decimated. You can't imagine it, MacLeod."

Independently his hands tried to shape of the scenes in his mind, weaving inadequately before him. "Fields rotting because there was no one to harvest the food … bodies burning in fires their religion prohibited … more of the dead just left in the street for dogs to eat.

"Then, in the winter, those that had survived starved but were thankful anyway because it seemed the sickness was gone. But it came back, Mac, it came back with the spring blossom. They said God withdrew his grace."

"But it wasn't God, it was Michael."

The reply was slow enough to come that gave him time to shake off the last of the unexpected mental sojourn into the past. He let out a long breath and focussed on the row of bottles on the shelf opposite. "Yes, Michael. Who then had a little jaunt into Italy and on to France and England and the rest, as they say, is history."

"You still haven't explained why you won't let his head be taken."

"You're very observant." He smiled as irritatingly as he could. "When Michael came to our village, I went out to meet him. Normally I'd have run, you understand, but I had a compelling reason to stay."

MacLeod mustered a smile, breaking through the frown that was threatening permanent residence. "What was her name?"

"Carolina. I loved her, very much." He was as surprised as MacLeod that he'd made such a frank admission and went on quickly. "Anyway, he introduced himself politely and said he'd spare my home if I'd turn a blind eye. He'd been paid well to kill Sicily, particularly its so very presumptuously thriving port, and didn't want to gain a bad name by defaulting on his contract."

"You didn't let him go …"

"Of course I didn't." Adam waved the slur on his honour aside, neglecting to mention how long he'd seriously considered it. "We fought and I was about to take his head when he told me doing so would make me the plague bringer, Death to all I met."

He also neglected to mention quite how hard he'd laughed at the metaphor the man had used.

"You have to understand we didn't comprehend the way diseases worked then, I couldn't take the chance. So I gave him his head on the proviso he left Sicily untouched. He left but, of course, it was far too late by then."

MacLeod nodded slowly in comprehension. "He'd already passed the contagion on."

"More specifically, he'd already passed it on to me. 'Rolina fell ill and I left her to track Doyle down. I found him at the docks about to board ship and demanded he tell me how to cure her. He gave me some of his blood and said she would have to drink it."

"Did it work?" The tone was entirely too relaxed, he glanced at MacLeod, who was giving every appearance of not being about to demand he got to the point. Adam resisted the pressing urge to ask if MacLeod was feeling quite himself and went on with the account instead.

It was easier to speak of now his mind couldn't smell the snow.

"Surprisingly, yes; but when I told her how she had been cured, she tried to give her blood to her brother. He died. Her mother died. Everyone died. Then, one morning, she was gone too."

"She caught it again?"

"She took her own life. She thought God had punished the village in return for her loving a man unnatural in His eyes."

"I'm sorry."

And there was no doubt he truly was. The compassion was sincere and unrestricted and it made Methos' chest hurt. The rest of the story died unsaid. As much as kindness stung, seeing it turn to disgust would be worse. "Yes, well ..."

"But he still has to be stopped. And don't tell me about honour, you only have honour when it suits you."

"That's a terrible thing to say. Accurate, but you could have used kinder phrasing. I would have thought you'd be more supportive in my efforts to become a man of my word." He took a long pull on his bottle and tried to sound off-hand after swallowing the too-warm beer. "The thing is, honour aside, I'm not sure whether it would be wise to kill him. I've studied medicine and, while I'm no Grace Chandel, I can tell you something is definitely off with his biology. If his blood did cure 'Rolina it certainly shouldn't have and, even worse, I have no idea whether he's carrying a contagion at the moment."

"Even if he isn't he has to be stopped, Methos."

Hints were clearly not going to work; already the famous MacLeod jaw was settling into a purposeful jut.

Adam tore a long strip off the label. "I can't let you take his head, I have no problems encasing him in lead and burying him with all the other toxic waste."

"If we do that, the Gathering will never be over."

The reasonable tone was entirely too much and he laughed. "Has it occurred to you the Gathering may never be over? How many Immortals do you think are buried over the planet? Some may have thought it was a fantastic way to avoid the game."

"If they're buried, they'll be dug up. It's happening all over, Methos. Fate, destiny, magic, whatever you want to call it, it's making sure the Gathering happens. You can't tell me you want the last remaining Immortal to be a man who can lay waste to nations."

"I want the last remaining Immortal to be me or, as a very, very far second, Amanda - but only if she promised not to have a sudden attack of ethics."

MacLeod grinned, feigning hurt. "Why not me?"

"You'd give everyone a golden age of enlightenment. I wouldn't want to inflict that sort of unimaginable boredom on an unsuspecting world."

"That's very altruistic of you." MacLeod paused just long enough to raise Methos' hopes, and then dash them neatly. "You went after Michael, didn't you? After 'Rolina."

The insufferable child was really getting far too practised at keeping a conversation under his control. Or, conceivably, he himself was getting far too unpractised. Adam resolved to work on that. "Yes, yes I went after Michael. Happy?"

"Ecstatic. What happened?"

"I didn't find him."

"Why do I find that hard to believe?"

"You have an untrusting and cynical nature."

"What happened?"

"_Who is your master? Give me their name or Death's ride will begin over your headless corpse."_

Methos shook his head against the memory and closed his eyes, one finger trying to push up glasses he hadn't worn for two lifetimes. "Mac, I haven't had enough to drink for this. I'm not sure I can drink enough for this, it may not be physically possible without some form of advanced pumping system."

He could feel the man's eyes on him as he stoically kept his on the small pile of shredded label he was tearing into finer and finer pieces. There was probably a simile there too if he chose to look closely but, as his earlier attempt had turned out so badly, he decided not to chance it.

MacLeod spoke quietly after a moment. "We can talk about this later."

Quashing a fairly absurd sensation of gratefulness, he nonetheless glanced over and was greeted with a grin as the man continued.

"Besides, Joe's band's about to start their set and if we talk through that he'll have both our heads and solve the problem for us."

The band had finished and the musicians were calling goodbye as they left in a flurry of guitar cases before Adam decided the label was as shredded as it was going to get without the invention of monofilament nail varnish. It probably amused and confused people in turns that someone of his age could devote their attention so completely to something so banal and pointless. He hadn't had the inclination to tell them that, at his age, you either found interest and purpose in everything or you found it in nothing. Anyway, he probably couldn't have said it without a Yoda impression which wouldn't have helped the solemn imparting of wisdom.

Wisdom. There was a double edged sword. Mac and Joe still occasionally looked at him like he had all the answers, not quite able to believe he didn't. Like he'd hold out on them if he'd figured it all out ... unless, of course, holding out was the wisest option. He toyed briefly with the thought that, perhaps, he was in fact incredibly wise and had somehow failed to notice, but dismissed the notion with the memory of the morning's Sock Debacle.

In fairness, he had a hard time believing he wasn't an all-knowing sage as well. Darius had been less than half his age and had held a greater understanding of the world than he could ever hope for. On the other hand, he liked to think he had a firmer grasp of people – most notably that they didn't change.

For a long time he had stopped seeing who was around him, they were all faces he'd known before. The clothes and accents might, _might_, alter but there was nothing new under the sun. A woman in the eighteen hundreds would ask his health, but he answered her twin from a thousand years before. Or he might as well have, they would react identically. He'd met them all already, even if they didn't know it. He'd killed them all already, even if they didn't know it. And, assuming the Gathering didn't descend on his head from above, he'd probably do it again.

He had wisdom; it just wasn't wisdom you'd want to bring to a dinner party.

Finally he became aware the stool beside him was no longer filled with six-foot of Son of Scotland and shortly afterwards he realised the club had emptied of patrons too. No marks for observation skills tonight.

He looked around to find Joe and MacLeod talking quietly by the drum kit. It was an odd sort of place for a clearly clandestine meeting and the incongruity made him smile as he stood and wandered towards them, burying his hands in his pockets as he went.

They turned to him with almost identically guilty expressions and he smirked. "This looks fun, can I join? Or is there a secret handshake I need to know? If you're planning to blow up Parliament, I'm afraid it's gone out of fashion." His tone was more cutting than he'd intended and he swallowed back the residual bitterness to go on in a friendlier fashion as they turned to look at him. "The set was great, Joe. Who's the new bassist?"

"You mean Pete? He's just covering. Al's kid is sick and he doesn't want to leave Meg alone with her." Joe shrugged minimally, relaying an uncomfortable worry absent from the casual reply.

"I'm sorry to hear that." And he discovered he was, too, which was encouraging. It appeared Adam had won out.

"We were just talking about Doyle ..." MacLeod coughed quietly and widened his eyes slightly at Joe, who went on without missing a beat "… and why Watchers don't interfere and couldn't possibly tell anyone whether he was in the city or not."

Adam looked down at his shoes, noted he needed to tie a lace, and then back up struggling to keep his expression dead pan. "It's a tragedy for the world of entertainment that you two aren't on the stage; I thought Vaudeville was a lost art."

"It's important to keep old skills alive" MacLeod's tone was dry as he stepped away. "Joe, I'll be at the barge for the rest of the night and tomorrow I'll be meeting Richie for lunch. Anyway, barring sudden acts of Gathering, you shouldn't need to Watch. If anything else happens I'll let you know."

Joe nodded as he packed away the rest of the instruments inside their covers. Methos stared at him, amusement warring with outrage. He settled on amused outrage, it seemed sensible. "Joseph, I'm almost certain there isn't a school of Watching entitled 'Ask For The Day Planner'".

"I didn't ask - he's just taking pity on a man of my years so I don't have to go out in the rain with binocs, catch pneumonia and die." Joe's exaggeratedly reasonable tone tipped the balance and Adam grinned.

"Heaven forbid you should lay down your life watching MacLeod have lunch, I'm not sure anyone would be able to ring the chapel bells at sunset with a straight face."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll try and aim for glorious when I go. Whatever happens, you are not writing the eulogy - you'd probably compare me to an empty can."

"Bottle. Probably of something imported, if it's any consolation."

MacLeod watched them for a moment, rolled his eyes and headed for the exit. "Later, Joe."

"I don't get a goodbye?" Adam tilted his head to watch him leave.

"No, because you're coming with me. You have a story to finish."

"I am? I do?" Methos planted his feet on the floor as MacLeod stopped at the door and raised an eyebrow. Brat.

"Yes. I have beer at the barge."

"I like to think my purchase price is a little higher than a beer."

"I have a case of beer and I'll let you steal food."

"No go."

"I have a case of beer, I'll let you steal food and I won't tell Amanda you were the one who shopped her to the police last time she was here."

Well, that was just playing dirty. He looked to Joe on the unlikely chance he would find support there. "I didn't do any such thing!"

Joe snickered quietly as MacLeod shrugged with feigned sympathy and a growing grin. "Amanda can be so impulsive when she's taking revenge for the loss of two million dollars in shiny, shiny jewellery"

"I could begin to dislike you both intensely."

The Watcher attempted to look sorrowful and held a hand over his heart while MacLeod opened the door with a pointed look. "We'll somehow learn to live with the pain."

Methos rediscovered how to curse in a language that had been dead three thousand years as he trailed after the other Immortal, ignoring Joe's cheerful wave goodbye.

The streets were slick and dark with the February rain Joe had been complaining about. A light drizzle that insidiously soaked through to the bone had been falling all day, was still falling now and, even covered with grime and rain, Paris was beautiful. It had taken him ten years to notice but one night he'd looked up and seen it with new eyes.

That had been his first mistake.

He should have looked right back down again but, by that point, the Highlander had been speaking earnestly about right and wrong and refusing, against all reason, to take his head.

The second mistake had been to listen.

He followed MacLeod, eyes on the pavement, idly watching the duster snapping around the man's heels. His own coat never snapped but just hung there or, very occasionally, curled. Even his clothes lacked fire and dynamism. Depression threatened and, on its heels, the feeling another simile was sneaking up on him. He quickly spoke to avoid it.

"Is there any reason we're walking in the rain rather than driving in a warm car?"

"It's a nice night." MacLeod slowed his stride enough to drop back so they walked side by side.

"How very Scottish of you. You do realise that man has spent thousands of years advancing civilization with the single goal of not having to walk in the rain?"

"Why didn't you just leave?"

MacLeod had very nearly allowed himself be drawn into bickering but clearly wasn't going to get sidetracked easily tonight. Adam toyed with deliberate misunderstanding instead. It wouldn't work but it would annoy the Highlander and that seemed like an amusing diversion while his history was peeled away from him. "The barge is closer than my apartment."

He could almost hear teeth grinding before MacLeod replied. "Earlier. Why didn't you leave when you heard Doyle was coming to Paris?"

"I was thinking about it but Joe persuaded me to stay until you got to the bar."

"You sat there for six hours before you even talked to him."

"He has a very persuasive aura."

"Methos". The word was a warning drawl; lengthening vowels most who had known him, really known him, had preferred to keep as short as possible, spitting the name like a curse.

"As it's not relevant, I recommend you keep your interrogation to topics you'll actually get an answer on."

"So if I don't ask why you stayed, you'll answer everything about Doyle?"

"That isn't what I … did I mention the intense dislike?"

"Yes."

"Well, some things bear repeating."


	2. Part 2

MacLeod smiled to himself as he led the way onto the barge, ignoring the muttered litany behind him. Even if he listened closely he probably wouldn't understand half the insults, but he was touched Methos was being so inventive on, presumably, the behalf of some Scottish donkey or other in his ancestry.

His hand was on the latch before he realised the main door of the barge was open, a thin line of the inner darkness against a frame that should have been flush. Then the signature of another Immortal rushed in to sharpen his attention; the sudden jolt had to be a Revival, it was too sudden for anything else.

There were only a few Immortals he could think of that would use his barge as a convenient temporary mausoleum and all were friends, but his hand sought the hilt of his katana anyway as he glanced back to Methos. The man was standing with an air of polite interest, hands still in his pockets. He took this to mean he was on his own as he pushed open the door.

A young woman sat on the floor of the barge, trying to rouse the man half sprawled across her lap. She was leaning over his upper body as if she could protect it, a familiar enough tableau that MacLeod paused for a moment, trying to avoid giving the figures faces and context from other times.

Enough of the man was visible for identification as he stepped closer, it was definitely Richie. Even with the mind only semi-aware the body reacted to the threat of another Immortal nearby, the boy's legs moved slightly in an effort to restore circulation. Unfortunately, that only served to cripple the newly revived as nerves woke up too, sometimes quite literally screaming.

MacLeod's hand searched for and found the light-switch and he flicked it on sharply. The woman's head jerked up blindly, pale skin almost luminously white, eyes stark relief, black with shock and fear. She was drenched with water, blond hair dark and flat against her skull. Richie was in a similar state but his t-shirt was a far darker shade of red than it should have been. There wasn't much blood on the carpet; he was willing to bet most of it had been lost in the Seine.

Duncan took all this in as he spoke to the woman he now recognised. "Greta?"

"Duncan?" She blinked rapidly as she tried to pull the strands of hair out of her eyes to look at him. "We … we were just … he …"

"It's okay, you're safe now." The words came automatically and so did the intent to make them true, no matter how many times he said it or how increasingly clichéd it sounded as the years went on. There was a snort behind him but he ignored it to walk to Greta's side.

She blinked dumbly as he pulled her away from Richie and led her to the couch. The thick blanket Tessa used to wait the nights away curled under was still there and he wrapped it around the shaking frame. Tessa would have been cursing someone by now, railing against her fear with anger until she'd forced it away. Greta just stared ahead.

"_Tessa, you're stronger than she was. If something happened to me, you'd be fine."  
"You only think so because it suits you."_

They'd just got it the wrong way around.

He swallowed to clear the tightness in his throat and turned back to his student, helping him to sit up.

"Mac?" Richie's voice was dazed but aware; he half dragged the younger man over to the couch and dropped him next to Greta. They made a pretty pathetic sight and he turned towards the kitchen area to start the coffee machine but stopped seeing Adam already had it covered.

Instead, he snagged the closest chair and took a seat facing them, trying to look calm and controlled for his own benefit as much as theirs, fighting the instinct to find and battle whatever had harmed his student even if Richie had long since stopped seeking or needing his protection.

"What happened?"

They looked at each other, then back to him but stayed silent. He tried again, this time looking specifically at Richie.

"What happened?"

"Greta …"

"Don't you blame this on me, Richard Ryan!"

Her eyes were still huge but indignation cleared some of the shock as she lightly backhanded Richie's arm. "I told him to leave it alone!"

Richie rubbed at the spot automatically as he defended his intentions. "How could I? You can't tell someone something like that and …"

"I said it was probably nothing, you know I get weird flashes that don't mean anything."

"Yeah, but …"

Duncan held up a hand, stopping the fight before it could start. "Explain now, spat later. What did you see, Greta?"

"We were at this cafe talking about this place we had to show you, it wasn't anything weird but it might have … and then I saw the river and there were bodies floating down it…" She trailed away, swallowing convulsively against the nausea of the memory, then took a breath and went on. "… lots of bodies. Like, you could have walked on them. If, you know, you were really, really, sick. So, Richie said we should go look at the river for real."

"I was just trying to make it better, Mac. Like, so Greta could see there was nothing in there. She …" Richie turned apologetically to the woman now leaning against his shoulder "… you looked really freaked. I figured seeing the river properly would help."

Greta absently took Richie's hand, apparently all was forgiven. At least for the moment; Duncan suspected someone was going to be buying flowers for a while when whatever had happened was sorted out.

"Anyway, so we're on the bridge where I was when I saw … whatever it was … and there's these guys throwing something over the top. Richie went to see what they were doing 'cause…"

As Greta trailed off, clearly wondering how to explain Richie's tendency to get involved without thinking of the consequences, he filled in the gap himself with a pointed look to the man in question. "'Cause Richie doesn't know when to leave something alone."

"Hey!" Before Richie could argue, Greta went on quietly.

"… and one of them said something only it was in French and it went a little beyond my phrase book, you know? And then they pulled guns and I thought I was going to die.

"Richie got shot and he made me jump off the bridge with him. I don't remember much else, just getting dragged onto the barge and then Richie died for so long I didn't know if he was going to wake up … and then you got home."

So Greta knew what Richie was. With so many things to rebuke the young man over, he chose the one that angered him the most. It wasn't as if someone with Greta's gifts wouldn't have worked it out eventually. "Richie, she could have been killed going over the bridge!"

"And she would have been killed staying on it. I didn't have a choice, Mac!" The boy was scared and angry and fully aware of what he'd done. Greta wouldn't be put in that kind of danger again.

He studied his student for a long moment before nodding and speaking in a less strident tone. "Stay here tonight, we'll figure out what to do tomorrow."

Richie began to raise an objection but gave up without a word, just rolled his eyes in a way that made him glad he hadn't been there for the kid's really angry adolescence.

A warm cup was pushed into his hand and his fingers closed about it reflexively, reminding him the other Immortal was still there. Adam hadn't taken the opportunity to escape, he was strangely touched. In the interest of politeness, he made introductions as Richie and Greta received their drinks.

"Richie, Adam. Adam, Richie. Greta, Adam. Adam, Greta."

Adam held a hand out to Richie, who took it automatically. "A pleasure to meet you, Greta."

And the tension broke on a bad joke. He rose to make sure all the entrances to the barge were secure while Richie solicitously hustled Greta towards the shower and the promise of warmth.

When MacLeod looked back, Adam was pulling his coat back on. "Well, it's been a lovely evening, full of high adventure and people dripping on me. I'll include it in my memoirs. See you around, Highlander."

"You're staying too, Adam." He crossed his arms and stood in front of the man, fixing him with the same expression he had gained Richie's acquiescence with earlier.

"The glare won't work on me."

Glare thwarted, he turned to coaxing. "You're staying because you promised to tell me the rest about Doyle."

"No I didn't, I don't make promises."

Coaxing down his tone turned, as it almost always did, back to flat tenacity. "Fine, you're staying because I've locked all the doors. You can either sulk in silence, or tell me the rest about Doyle."

"You don't think you have slightly more important things to worry about - random men throwing random things off random bridges and firing random bullets?" Adam grinned and side-stepped, MacLeod gave him half a foot before reaching out to take a firm grip of the man's collar.

"Maybe they're connected."

"Maybe you're deluded." His hold was shaken loose but at least Adam had stopped walking. Unfortunately, it was only so he could continue speaking. "Have you considered therapy for this white knight complex of yours? Maybe you should get another hobby."

"Caring about my friends isn't a hobby. The beer's in the refrigerator, with the food, and Amanda isn't after your head."

"And Richie and Greta will be joining us shortly; do you really want them to hear all the grisly details? I would have thought they'd been through enough tonight."

MacLeod felt his jaw flex against the thought, despite himself. "No, I don't. But they're going to. Richie should know what's out there and Greta might be able to help."

"Greta might be able to help with what, now?"

Richie stood on the top stair, looking down with some trepidation. After a moment he slowly descended to join them. Some of the colour had returned to his cheeks and he clung to his cup of coffee as if trying to force the heat into himself.

Finally Adam frowned and began to unbutton his coat; the Ivanhoe was stripped out to rest against the hull wall. There was no hint to what his thought process had been but somehow his 'run' switch had flipped to 'stay' in the last few moments. MacLeod wished he could figure out how to trigger it, life would get a lot easier.

The man spoke as he dropped his wet coat over the back of an antique chest. "Greta can help with something I'll tell you about when everyone's here because, frankly, I can think of several hundred things I'd rather do than repeat this story more than once. One of them includes having my head taken by Kenny."

That drew both other Immortals startled attention, questioning in unison. "You know Kenny?"

"Everyone knows Kenny." Adam threw himself on the couch to rest in a haphazard sprawl. "If I'm staying, MacLeod, you're cooking."

Richie nodded tentatively. "Greta will be pretty hungry … "

MacLeod snorted and shook his head at the man still inconsiderately dripping water and diluted blood onto his rug "… and you, of course, couldn't possibly eat another thing after swallowing half the Seine."

Richie grinned. "Okay, I'm pretty hungry too."

The voice of the couch came again "And it's only polite to cook for guests."

"Greta is the only guest here. Richie's family and you're …"

Adam spoke with quiet nonchalance. "I'm …?"

He hesitated before replying, the lightness in the tone of the question didn't match the focus of the gaze; Adam had spoken but Methos was asking. "Family doesn't usually check the door to see if it's really locked when they think I'm not looking."

"Nor do guests, unless your hospitality is more terrifying than I've been led to believe."

There was that dichotomy of stare and tone again and he honestly had no clue what he had been meant to reply.

"Then I guess you're family." Richie spoke up "You know, the weird uncle that drops by and you watch the silver."

"That's not very polite." The world's oldest Immortal looked severely at one of the world's youngest and MacLeod abruptly felt himself let off the hook somehow.

"He generally isn't when he's right. Don't worry, it doesn't happen very often."

Digging through the cupboards for something that could feed four people, one of whom included Richie 'Sucking Vortex' Ryan, gave him something to do while the other two talked. The conversation drifted over to him, and he listened with some interest to see how the two would react to each other.

"So, Adam, known Mac long?"

"Relatively speaking, no. It just feels like centuries."

"He does kinda have a way of sticking around you."

"So does malaria."

Feeling the need to maintain just a little respect for his dignity after hearing Richie snickering, MacLeod spoke up "I can still hear you and it's not too late for me to run out for some arsenic to flavour your food with."

Adam replied lazily, good humour apparently restored. "I appreciate the thought but I can probably make it through whatever you're making without having to kill myself."

"How did you guys meet?"

When Adam failed to reply to Richie's question, MacLeod did so. "Kalas." Then he poured all the pasta he could find into boiling water and hoped for the best.

"Yes, Kalas. He was running a singles agency; it was love at first sight."

And now he felt the need to strangle Adam as he corrected the statement. It wouldn't do any good but there would be a certain amount of satisfaction to be had. "Kalas was after his head. He isn't anymore."

Richie grinned, clearly enjoying the differing versions of the story. "Why was he after you?"

Adam laughed self-mockingly, but with no trace of shame. "A case of mistaken identity - he thought I was someone who wouldn't go running to MacLeod screaming bloody murder."

"You got Mac to fight for you? I thought that wasn't allowed."

"_Yes_, I did. Kalas wasn't too upset at the last minute substitution. Well, until he lost his head anyway. I imagine that upset him quite a lot. Briefly."

MacLeod just watched as Methos recounted the events with close to complete honesty but still managed to lie through his teeth. He made a mental note to ask exceedingly specific questions about Doyle. But that could wait for the moment; instead it was time to ask some exceedingly specific questions of Richie. The younger man might not be in Methos' league but he'd been practising evasion since he could talk. Occasionally he wondered why he always seemed drawn to people who laughed at his sense of honour and usually allowed them to run rings around him, but he didn't wonder too hard.

"Greta said there was something you guys had to show me, Richie."

"That was meant to be a surprise for tomorrow but I guess it'd be kinda stupid to wait. I took Greta over to the church where Darius was 'cause she wanted to see it, and she started telling me about him. I never even told her she was Immortal, Mac, but she was just coming out with this bunch'a stuff about him … anyway, she said she wanted to see where else he'd lived. I told her it was just the church but she said there was someplace else …"

"Richie, even Immortals need to breathe occasionally." Duncan smiled as Richie took a breath, pleased he'd misjudged the amount of pressing he'd have to do to get to the point.

"Right. So, we did the tourist thing and ended up on the left bank. Then Greta starts walking and says this was the route Darius took when he was trying to sneak some of the Protestants out of the city when the Catholics were after them, like, hundreds of years ago. We end up at this place where she says the basement used to lead out under the old walls and hey, presto, the persecuted are gone. But Darius kept something in there and I guess he never went back for it; she said he'd want you to have it."

As he listened, MacLeod began to feel a nagging disquiet over what it could be. The last time Darius had left him something to find, after all, it had been because the Priest had dreamt of his own death. "What's over it now?"

"Just some apartments. She said the cellars are still there, but she doesn't know if there's a way down there."

"Okay, thanks. That's really …" Really what, he wasn't sure. Dark foreboding aside Darius' death, like Tessa's, like a hundred others, still hurt enough he could spend a day mourning without feeling unjustified. Richie meant well, he knew, but … But.

Richie's face fell. "You don't want to know, sorry man."

"I do. I really do. After we've dealt with Michael Doyle and the guys on the bridge, show me where it is."

He was rewarded by the reappearance of a smile and then by a puzzled frown. "Who's Michael Doyle?"


	3. Part 3

Watching Richie and MacLeod together was almost worth having been imprisoned, however politely, on the barge. It was a study in Darwinism and Adam always appreciated a practical example of theory.

The younger Immortal was trying to emulate the elder in the name of experience; the elder trying to emulate the younger to maintain a grasp on the time and place. If the entire concept of the Game hadn't been so evolutionarily unsound, he'd have been tempted to write a paper on it.

Maybe the Watchers would appreciate a small thesis from one of their least visible researchers. Maybe they'd reward him with a larger grant and access to more volumes. Maybe they'd notice he hadn't aged in the ten years he'd been a member, take his head and do the Tribunal Congo on his ashes. Yes, on second thoughts, it was possible to go too far in the name of Truth.

He was aware of Greta watching him; she wasn't even being discreet about it. At least she wasn't trying to insult his intelligence, but the stare was becoming unsettling. Finally she spoke in a low voice, despite the fact they could have sung arias to each other and not have been heard over the bickering and clanging from the kitchen. "How old are you?"

The girl's stare was too similar to Cassandra's for comfort - the sensation of looking through when she should have been looking at. But the shyness with which the question had been asked softened the tone of what he'd meant to be a cuttingly off-putting reply. "Approximately six years older than my teeth."

Her mouth quirked with a little smile that tentatively grew to a grin. That didn't bode well for the conversation's quick end. "That's what my grandmother used to say."

With a shrug he looked away as he replied, focussing back to the kitchen where MacLeod and Richie appeared to be engaged in a battle to the death over a pepper pot. "I never claimed to be original."

Silence fell for a moment, save for the ongoing feud, and he hoped she'd taken the hint, but then the soft voice with the slight catch came again.

"You're old enough to be. I keep seeing …"

All right, yes, she'd had a nasty shock and, yes, she was probably partly aware of whom she was sitting across from, but the timid tone was beginning to grate. She couldn't possibly be this meek normally. Although he'd only met Richie briefly, he'd seen enough to know he'd go for the same kind of woman as MacLeod did. 'Meek and mild' would not be a phrase you'd use to describe them unless you'd always longed for an indent in your face.

"You should probably keep your eyes to yourself."

"I wish I could. It's crazy. First I'm looking at palms and then it's just touching something, now these visions come without even trying. The gift that keeps giving ... I think I'm going to go mad."

While he could sympathise that the girl wanted to talk, he questioned her choice of confidant. First, he didn't do comfort and second, he didn't do comfort. It was only one rule but he felt it bore repeating. He pushed down the memory of Alexa ruthlessly but wasn't quite able to get away without admitting that he didn't do comfort while the only person he'd been able to give it to in over five-hundred years was still firmly entrenched in his heart. And still firmly entrenched in the cemetery.

"_You try living one year knowing that your time is running out, knowing that when it comes to the final fight, however much you train, whatever tricks you have … you still lose…"_

Well, that snuck up on him. He shook his head slightly and refocused on Greta who continued looking at him almost hopefully. Oh, good, another one who was expecting the spontaneous development of profound wisdom.

There wasn't much he could say to her, unless he felt like lying, which was a fairly ridiculous thing to attempt with someone who could apparently see into his head.

The number of true psychics he'd met over the course of five-thousand years could be counted on one hand, and even then the hand could be missing a finger or two. Each of them had gone mad, one way or another. Only Cassandra's Immortality had saved her and even that had been something of a mixed blessing.

"I'd suggest taking it back and asking for a refund but I'm not sure the universe has a complaints department, a massive oversight on any benevolent creator's part." He decided it was time to start asking the questions, before she came up with any more of her own. "Is that why you're with Richie? Not that I'm suggesting he doesn't have many fine attributes that don't involve being somewhat preternatural, of course."

She rolled her eyes at his deliberately doubtful expression. "Lots of fine attributes. And he doesn't understand everything, but he doesn't look at me funny."

"Give him some time, he'll understand eventually. If he's anything like MacLeod, he won't let anything _stop_ him understanding what's going on. Then will come the endless questions and you'll wish you _could_ go mad so you'd have the excuse to chop his head off with something blunt and rusty." He waited for the grin, then paused for effect before going on with exaggerated politeness. "Sorry, we were talking about your issues. Time. Give him time."

"I don't think he has any." The grin faded away again and the resignation returned.

It struck him that she was entirely too young to be that fatalistic but supposed seeing the future would have a dampening effect on all but the most unimaginative person. "Have you told him that?"

"No. Telling people doesn't help, really. Things just find a way to happen. Why, do you think I should?"

"Probably not, no-one likes a death sentence. Or a life sentence for that matter. In fact, we should probably leave sentencing out of it all together."

"You'd know. Do they know how old you are?"

It was with no small amount of pride he held back a sarcastic response, she was starting to lose the little girl voice and he didn't want it to come back again. Instead he smiled slightly, letting just a little hardness into his expression. Not enough to scare her, just enough to make it clear he was serious. "MacLeod does, I'd take it as a kindness if you'd refrain from mentioning it to Richie. I don't particularly want to have to defend myself from MacLeod's favoured son and old Immortals can be oh so very tempting to the young."

"Richie wouldn't do that." She was either trying to convince him or herself. Interesting. He wondered what said favoured son had done while he was away from the nest. Or, more intriguingly, what he may do yet. He made another mental note, this time to avoid turning his back on Richie Ryan.

"From your mouth to God's ear, but I still don't want him to know. People do uncharacteristic things when they think they don't have a choice. Unless, of course, you've seen that he doesn't, in which case I'll sleep more soundly tonight."

A faint blush told him she hadn't, that she was just standing up for the integrity of the man she loved. How sweet. Really. Her tone was less sweet when she replied, at last carrying the strength he expected of her. "My grandmother said that too."

"She said Richie wouldn't take my head?"

"No, she said desperate people do desperate things."

"Then she's a very wise woman." He sat back smugly, which lasted a few seconds before her next pointed words drew the sarcasm out of him again.

"Not really, she was bitter and alone."

"Thank you for your summary, I'll be sure to incorporate your lesson into my life. I'm a changed man already."

"You're welcome, Methos."

That made him turn back to her, Adam withdrawing as Methos hissed quietly and internally enjoyed her shocked expression as she recoiled. Stupid child, playing at witchery, thinking the Sight would give her more than she deserved. "Do not start throwing that name around. You don't know me."

Her chin lifted, even as her body betrayed her by trying to press back into the cushions away from him though he'd barely moved an inch towards her. "I kinda do. Everything is just there to see."

His smile was as unpleasant as he could make it, which from her flinch was quite impressively so. The aim was to imprint on her the virtues of keeping her mouth shut, but he couldn't quite keep the hint of curiosity from his words. "Then why aren't you screaming and calling for MacLeod to start swinging three feet of pointy metal?"

"Because everything is just there to see."

Now it was his turn to jerk away, not just from her words but also from Richie's as the younger Immortal walked towards them, blithely oblivious to their conversation.

"Okay, we have food and, thanks to my lightning reflexes, it's even edible."

MacLeod smacked the plate bearer upside the head as he walked to the table to set down the large bowl of pasta. "You're in France, Richie, it's an actual crime not to put seasonings into tomato sauce."

"I won't tell if you don't. Seriously, mint? What were you thinking?"

"I don't know, maybe about a meal that wasn't just a step above McDonalds."

"There's nothing wrong with McDonalds, don't bring the hate on my staple diet."

They took their seats, handing out the plates and cutlery in an entirely too domestic fashion that MacLeod was clearly enjoying but made Adam cringe. Yes, cringe. Watch the cringing. He stamped down on the slight twinge of ease and smothered the newborn sense of family.

This was not family. Three of the people around the table had been created with single the purpose of killing each other; that was nearly dysfunctional enough to encourage a Springer show. '_Men Who Take Heads And The Women That Love Them Until They Die Tragically'_. Perhaps the title needed a little work.

MacLeod broke the silence of eating by carrying on the Richie-baiting which, Adam had to admit, had a certain charm. "Greta, make him take you to at least one decent restaurant while you're here."

She glanced affectionately at the man who was steadily eating at her side, watching as he tried to swallow his mouthful of food in time to answer first and failed. "We tried, the menu scared him. He wouldn't stop muttering about _Fruite de Mer_"

Richie ended up talking with his mouth full, using his fork to punctuate his words. "It was a traumatic experience. Except for the company."

Greta smiled, saccharine sweet. "I'm going to pretend I don't know which beautiful brunette you're talking about." She daintily twisted her pasta around her fork and Richie yelped quietly as, Adam guessed, he received a kick under the table.

The young man grinned ruefully "A psychic girlfriend? Also scary."

"I'm inclined to believe you." Adam felt that adding 'but don't worry, she'll soon go mad and no longer trouble any of us, particularly me, but you'll meet someone just like her in a generation or two' probably wouldn't go down well as an addendum. Wisdom you didn't bring to the dinner table, indeed.

When the meal was done and the dishes were being cleared he excused himself from the chaos to escape to the far of the barge.

Rain spat thickly against the glass of the porthole, tricking the lights on the bank opposite into giving each drop its own luminescence. Some Immortals he had known could have spent hours looking at the effect; at least one would have written a heart shattering poem, and all he could muster was vague relief that he wasn't out there getting wet.

Maybe that was what too many years did, stripped you down until all you really had were practicalities. What you could do and what you couldn't. He decided it clearly must on the basis it would make him less of a bastard for the half-truths he was about to tell. It was for their own good and, more importantly, for his own good.

After a few minutes he could hear the others settling themselves onto the couch and chairs, but he still couldn't think of how to tell the information they were waiting to hear.

And then he could.

MacLeod had wanted a story; he could give them a story. He began to speak without turning around, affecting a sing-song style fashionable in all the best kindergartens.

"Once upon a time … Once upon a time, the world was exactly the same as it is now, but the people were real. They knew there was a Heaven, and they knew there was a Hell, and what they did they did despite it … especially if they knew they would avoid judgement for a very, very long time.

"And, before there was time, the world was exactly the same as it is now, but the people weren't real at all. They knew the underworld was below them and they knew the Gods were amongst them. And what they did, they did to spite them … especially if they knew they could _be_ judgement for a very, very long time."

He heard Greta's sharply indrawn breath but she didn't speak. Good to know the young could be taught.

"Somewhere between the two, a man decided to be judgement to the real people. He killed indiscriminately, becoming a walking Pestilence for anyone that paid him enough. Eventually, he came to the village of the hero of our story." He couldn't help the mockery that entered his tone but paused for a moment to return to the same impersonal sing-song of before.

"'Kill me and become me', said the man. Our hero forwent the Challenge, bade him leave and he named the price love. But this was the _real_ world and, in the _real_ world, the price … was too high.

"Love died with the sun and the hero sought the man again. He found him by the sea and he said 'Take me to your masters and I will spare your life.' The man took him to his masters and the hero spared his life. But he took just a little of the man's Pestilence and he walked amongst his masters.

"As the last one was dying, our hero spoke again. He said 'Take me to your master and I will spare your life'. "'But', cried the master, 'I have no master' and the hero did not spare his life. But he took just a little of the master's Pestilence and he walked amongst his people.

"When he trod only on the dead, the hero looked for the man again. He found him by a forest and he said 'Take me to your master and I will spare your life.' The man drew his sword and said 'With regret, I have no master'.

"They fought there, in the forest, until at last the hero cut the man down. 'Kill me and become me', said the man. 'I have been you', said our hero, and prepared to strike. But, before the sword could fall, another stepped forward. A traveller stood between them and turned the blade aside with his hand alone.

"'Kill him only if you can give another life in his place', said the Traveller.

"The hero knew he could not and the man went free. The Traveller led our hero to a sacred place and bade him wash in the spring there …"

"He showed you the spring you took me to." The Highlander's voice cut across the memories threatening to swamp him and Adam glanced back with a look old fashioned enough it bordered on Neolithic.

"Yes, MacLeod, he showed me the place. I hadn't taken a Dark Quickening, before you ask."

"Then how did you know it would work for me as well?"

"Hope springs eternal. Quite literally, in this case. Did you want me to go on or …" A flicker of brighter light in the darkness caught his eye and he looked back through the porthole. It came again, closer this time, bobbing up and down over the water like a particularly unseasonable mayfly. "… or do you want to take a look at this?" He nodded his head towards it as MacLeod unfolded himself from his seat on the floor and leant in to watch whatever it was flow closer.

After a moment he felt the man tense and draw back. "Everybody out."

"What is it?" Richie tried to move in but was firmly grabbed by the arm and pushed towards the door.

"I only know what it looks like, move." Now MacLeod rounded on Greta who was still hesitating and raised his voice. "Move!"

She moved and Methos had to admire the tone of command, until he discovered he was jumping to it as well and took appropriate steps to slow down and look unconcerned. He drew on his coat and returned his sword to its rightful place within it, then followed Richie and Greta out when it was clear MacLeod intended to be the last one off the barge.

They made it to the inner edge of the gangplank before Greta screamed and ducked down behind the thin cover of the rails, hands tight over her head to protect it from a non-existent threat. He ducked with her, the reflex to follow the point's actions so ingrained he didn't even think about it.

Nothing happened except MacLeod nearly tripping over him in the darkness. The other man had been a soldier enough times to take the same crouched position just within the barge's rails, tugging Richie down with him.

Then the Scot pressed closer, speaking under his breath. "What's the problem?"

Adam replied as quietly while scrunching down even further, trying to make as small a target as possible. "Either we're under a very quiet - very poorly aimed - attack, we're about to be under attack, or Greta has had a slightly delayed nervous breakdown."

MacLeod moved slightly out of cover for a better look and he followed, using the other man's bulk as partial cover. His night vision was good but it was almost impossible to pick out any hint of anything waiting for them in the shadows ahead.

It was quite the killing ground, if you looked at it properly. No real cover for them, but multiple points a half decent sniper could position themselves. At some point he'd have to ask MacLeod to consider putting his home in a more defensible position, considering the regularity with which it was attacked.

There was quiet murmuring from Richie as he tried to calm Greta, it didn't seem worth trying to make out the words. MacLeod began to move back and Adam moved accordingly.

When they were both once more within the scant shelter of the rails, his shield spoke quietly again. "I think it's a mine."

"Or somebody dropped flashlight." Adam smiled slightly, finding amusement in strange places again. To his surprise, MacLeod smiled back. He had expected to be treated with famous Highlander disgust after his 'story'. It was possible the man hadn't understood it, of course.

Or maybe he was prioritizing; old death versus current, personal risk of death had a clear winner. He didn't quite let himself believe MacLeod had both understood and accepted, he wasn't that lucky and the Scot wasn't that broad minded.

"I'd rather be paranoid than be palm sized pieces in the Seine."

"I'm uncomfortably proud of you."

"Thanks." MacLeod reached across to bring Richie from Greta's side closer into their little circle, hoisting him around like a cat with its kitten. "We might have a mine behind us. It's about twenty feet out and coming closer; if it's magnetic it'll be on there in four, five minutes. There's no way we can move the barge in that time. Get anything out of Greta?"

"She's talking about guns and explosions, she's not making a lotta sense but she thinks there're people waiting for us out there. Maybe if we surround her and make a run for the steps …"

"… they'll cut us down after five feet." MacLeod shifted as he spoke; pressing close enough Adam was forced further out onto the gangplank as the man tried to see what was ahead. Both caught the muted glint on the bridge above before it was quickly smothered.

Richie's head appeared behind him, edging even further out from the comparative safety of the desk before drawing back quickly. "Yeah, okay, bad plan. Why aren't they shooting already?"

"At a guess? Because they don't have to. Which means they're not amateurs, they know when to wait."

"That's comforting."

MacLeod just gave a hard half smile and drummed his fingers on one raised knee as he watched the bank. Silence fell for all of two seconds before Richie spoke up again, voice just a little too calm to be true.

"So we have a plan, right? Options?"

As MacLeod was apparently trying to will the men on the bank to death, Adam answered in his stead, ticking off the limited choices on his fingers. "Wait here and die. Run over there and die."

Richie spoke after a couple of seconds of expectant silence. "I'm waiting for the third option."

After a moment's thought, Adam managed to come up with on. "I suppose we could go back on the barge and die in the comfort of our own home."

"It's my home." MacLeod's tone was absent-minded, raising a token objection.

"Sorry, we can go back on the barge and die in the comfort of MacLeod's own home."

Leather creaking underscored Richie's agitation as he moved restlessly. "We can hit the water again."

"We'd survive that but I don't rate Greta's chances much in this weather, even if they're not shooting at us and we make it out of detonation range."

"I'm in awe of your optimism. What about killing the mine, Mac?"

"I know which wires to pull out of plastique, disarming a bomb in the middle of the Seine at midnight is a bit harder. Adam?"

"I don't play with toys that can remove my head from my body."

Both other men snorted at what he considered to be perfectly logical behaviour, only MacLeod muttered a reply. "Of course, what was I thinking?"

"Okay, so no disarming. What about talking to them?"

"Yes, and while we're at it we could ask if any of them know how to disarm a mine. I'm pretty sure they're not open to an honest exchange of views if their opening move is a bomb, Richie." Adam grinned at the sarcasm in MacLeod's tone; it was rarer than his own so he appreciated it more.

The younger man wasn't dissuaded, steadfastly trying to come up with a way out like the cornered street rat he was. Methos had to respect that, even if he wished he'd shut up and let him think. "Call the police?"

"With what? Smoke signals?"

"It's called a cell phone, Mac. Know and love it."

"Where's yours?"

"The Seine ate it."

"Adam?"

"I hear they can track you with those things. I don't play with toys that could let people find me and remove my head from my body."

Again came the twin snorts and he thought back to his mental Immortals: Teacher and Student paper. This time it was Richie to throw in his two cents. "You lead a very limited life."

"That's fine as long as I'm leading one. Does anyone even know what they want? If it's just Richie we could give him to them. They don't know he's Immortal."

"Gee, I'm feeling the love here. Anyway, they saw me take two in the chest. If they didn't know I was Immortal then, they do now."

MacLeod finally spoke again, tone decisive. "I'll go for the bridge with Greta. Adam, you and Richie aim for the stairs, we'll regroup at your apartment; first ones there phone Joe and let him know what's happening."

Methos felt he really needed to put his opinion in now, while he was still alive to have one. "That's not a good plan and when we're all cut down like so many sheep, I want you to know my last words were 'I told you so'."

"Come up with a better plan, you have thirty seconds or so."

He couldn't and glared at MacLeod's uncaring back with as much irritation as he could muster through the low grade panic.

"There isn't one."

"So go."


	4. Part 4

Adam and Richie were quick, built for speed, and he'd put them together for that reason as much as for wanting an experienced Immortal with each pairing. It wasn't much of an advantage against bullets, but it was better than nothing and they'd lose it completely having to take care of Greta.

Both ran at the same moment and Adam was the first out onto open ground, fastest but only because he knew he couldn't die. Richie still had the remnants of a survival instinct telling him death was forever and he hesitated just long enough before leaving cover to make the gap between himself and Adam large enough for a sniper to take full advantage.

MacLeod forced himself to look away from their progress and concentrate on his own route. A shot cracked in the darkness and there was no time to see if anyone was hit, he was already moving, half carrying Greta as they ran for the awning bridge.

His feet struck the paving solidly and he counted as he ran, down rather than up. No bullets followed them which had to mean there were people ahead. They made bad targets in the darkness and rising fog and he had to hope whoever was waiting would choose to try and finish it up close and personal.

Two steps into cover there was a wash of heat at his back and the deafening sound of the barge being reduced to so many splinters. The concussive force sent him staggering further under the archway, still trying to shield the woman in his arms as much as he was able.

Something flashed in the darkness and he turned instinctively to meet it, raising his arm to block and lifting his knee into the gut of his attacker with as much force as momentum would allow him. A man folded with a pained grunt, the knife that had been in the attacker's hand slipped without resistance into his own.

Greta gave a cut off gasp behind him and he turned, throwing the blade into the forehead of the man who had tried to pull her away.

Then he fell back as another shadow became an opponent and it became mechanical, the disciplines he had studied for so long blending seamlessly without thought or reason until there was only himself, his targets and the woman he was protecting.

Harsh cries and pants echoed around the bricks and he ignored them as he ignored the occasional hits and cuts they managed to land on him. Where he could, he honoured Darius and spared a life, where he couldn't … he couldn't.

At last there were no more shadows, only still forms on the ground and Greta standing with a knife in her hand. He took in the way blood had splashed up over her face and arms and given her an almost Pagan cast. There was too much for it to be hers and, as she was still standing, at least one corpse on the ground wasn't on his conscience.

Centuries old notions that women shouldn't have to kill rose and were quashed back; there was nothing to be done now. She followed him, easy to lead as they ran deeper under the bridge. He set her down at the edge, where she could see the line of traffic above.

"I need to talk to one of them, stay here."

She nodded jerkily and he turned her face towards him and repeated the words until he was reasonably sure she'd understood them. Then he jogged back towards the small pile of miscellaneous bad guy he'd left on the ground. One of them was groaning more loudly than the others, alert enough to actually feel the amount of pain he was in.

First he checked the wrists and found them clear of the Watcher's mark, not sure whether to be happy about that or not. This wasn't a devil he knew. Carefully he knelt with one knee on the man's chest and the other on the hard, gritty cement. He braced most of his weight on one arm as he leant over to make sure his pleasant smile was the first thing his detainee saw when he opened his eyes.

"Name."

"Screw you."

"Cruel parents. Let's try this again, M'sieu You." He let more of his weight rest on what were undoubtedly broken ribs and watched the swarthy face pale considerably. "Name."

"Henri Gervais."

"You're lying, your accent's not good enough to be real. Lie again and you get to find out what it's like to drown in your own blood." MacLeod put every ounce of promise into his expression and tried not to think what he'd do if his bluff was called. He didn't have to worry; the man shuddered once and spoke almost, but not quite, pleadingly.

"Henri Montoya. Please, it's the truth, I'm telling the truth!"

MacLeod ran the accent through his mind a few times, separating the French intonations from the Spanish and decided to give him the benefit of the doubt for the moment.

"And what's the plan, Henri? Why are you here?"

The man licked his lips, blood flecks were left behind and he eased his weight away slightly. "We just get told. Go here, go there - we don't ask."

"Who does the telling?"

The Spaniard gave as much of a shrug as he was able. "If I am to die, it will be with honour. I will not tell you."

"Honour? Where's the honour in killing four innocent people!?"

"Innocent? When he sends us, it is not to the innocent."

They matched stares for a long moment before MacLeod stood and looked down on the sweating man, speaking quietly. "Then he, whoever he is, has been lying to you."

Nothing gave in the gaze that met his; he recognised a fanatic well enough when he saw one and doubted he'd get anything more from the others starting to groan their way into consciousness. Time to go.

Greta was still where he had left her, eyes on the flashing tail lights of the cars above. She didn't startle when he put a hand on her shoulder, just stood and turned to face him. Most of the blood was gone from her skin; her clothes were damp where she'd tried to wash the worst out of the material.

"I figured we wouldn't get far if I looked like Lizzie Borden."

She'd caught the line of his thoughts without prompting and now she shrugged again. "I can read expressions too, you know. I'm not going to scream and faint or anything. I might later, though. That would be okay, wouldn't it?"

"Yeah. I might join you." She might not be having hysterics but her glazed expression wasn't reassuring and he was gentle as he led her out from under the bridge and up the slope to the street.

They made it to the pavement without incident but the sound of sirens drawing closer made him pick up their pace. If he was lucky, he could claim he'd been at Adam's all evening when the police inevitably tracked him down with a polite enquiry about the state of his barge and the bodies under the bridge. LeBrun was going to have a field day.

Adam. Richie. A hundred scenarios flashed through his mind and he pushed them away. There wasn't any point in borrowing trouble and, if they hadn't made it out, there was nothing he could do while he was taking care of Greta.

There was no sense of being followed, something he'd become acutely attuned to since discovering the existence of the Watchers, but he took them on a round about route to the apartment anyway. Greta didn't complain, just silently followed where she was led, apparently happy to walk forever if it was required.

He assumed most of her mind had shut down for the moment, so he was surprised when she spoke again.

"I'm sorry about the barge."

"It's just a thing." There was a twinge, but that's all there was. Nothing that had been in there was equal to the worth a life, he'd never found anything that was. He'd never looked. What memories it had kept for him he could keep equally as well in his mind.

She persisted quietly. "It had a lot of history."

"People have more."

"I guess so."

"I know so." He spoke firmly, silencing the last of the loss.

They walked two more blocks before she spoke again. "Do you think they got away?"

"I think … if anyone could have gotten them clear, it's Adam. Can you … see anything?"

Her shoulders slumped slightly. "No. It's all gone kinda quiet. Pretty useless, huh?"

"It's not useless. They'll be at the apartment."

She smiled slightly, probably not believing him any more than he believed himself.

They weren't at the apartment and he knew it as soon as he got within range of the building. No lights were on in the windows and, more to the point, there was no Immortal presence hitting him.

Greta was looking at his expression, probably waiting for the tell-tale blankness she would have learned to recognise on Richie by now. "They're not here, are they?"

"No, not yet."

Adam hadn't given him a key but he hadn't spent so many years with Amanda without picking up a trick or two. He finally convinced the lock to see things his way and Greta stumbled into the rush of heat as he opened the door; he wasn't far behind her. The lights in the hallway were low-lit but welcoming, a cocoon against the chill of the city.

One foot fell in front of the other automatically as they climbed the stairs, still trying to compartmentalize the evening until it made something like sense. His mind skipped away from the story Adam had told, he wasn't ready to process it properly yet. A dull rage had settled in him over it and replaying the narrative was like poking at a half-healed injury, which didn't help anyone.

Details were missing and Methos had obviously been trying to make him leap to all the wrong conclusions. He held the thought for only a moment before he was almost forced admit he didn't know that for sure, he only _hoped_ the old man was trying to manipulate him again. Sometimes it was harder to be honest with himself than it should be.

He shook his head slightly to refocus his thoughts as they reached the landing. This could wait until everyone was safely together again. Then he'd threaten Adam with a hammer or, if he was still angry, with the complete Ring Cycle as sung by the worst opera troupe currently available, until a straight answer was finally achieved. Yes, that was a plan.

One issue cleanly solved, he turned his mind back to the more pressing one. First he'd have to call Joe and then he could start to worry about Richie and Adam in peace.

Opening the apartment door was the work of a few moments, there was no extra security which surprised him briefly until he realised Adam would have several minutes warning of an approaching Immortal. He'd be able to use the fire-escape, conveniently located outside the bedroom window long before anyone got there.

MacLeod dropped into the chair by the phone after pointing Greta towards the bed, then reached for the handset and flicked on the table lamp. His fingers paused over the buttons as he noticed Adam had Le Blues Bar on speed dial below the local Chinese and he himself was third. He chuckled under his breath. Nice to know where he ranked.

Joe's home number wasn't listed and he was quietly pleased he was the only Immortal to have that. He tried Le Blues first, willing to bet the owner was still there.

The phone at the other end rang twice before it was answered. "Le Blues Bar, Joe speaking. We're closed unless you're Claudia Schiffer."

The geniality in the Watcher's tone lightened his own automatically. Joe was the solid touchstone that even Methos used for a reality check occasionally. Joe was real. "Sorry, I wasn't last time I checked. You haven't heard from Adam or Richie this evening, have you?"

"Not since you guys left … what's the problem?"

"What isn't? Look, can you run a name down for me? Henri Montoya. About thirty, maybe a couple of years either way; could have lived in France and Spain. Dark hair, dark eyes, scar above the left eyebrow, about six foot tall but that's only a guess."

He could almost picture Joe scribbling the information down. "Sure, he an Immortal?"

"He's mortal, but he might be working for one of us."

"I'll see what I can get on him; want me to bring it by the barge?"

He paused before deciding to let Joe know the extent of the situation. "The barge is at the bottom of the Seine."

There was an answering pause at the other end of the line before a calm reply returned. "Mac, you maybe want to start at the beginning?"

"It's a long story."

"I have time. This search is gonna take a while."

"Rich and his woman - Greta - were shot at, jumped into the river, ended up on the barge, some guys attacked the barge with a mine, we got split up, I'm with Greta at Adam's place."

"That was a pretty short story."

"It felt longer."

"And you have no clue what's going on? Why did they shoot at Richie and Greta in the first place?"

"I think they saw something they weren't meant to, but they don't know what. Just something being dumped over the bridge. I'm going to take a look down there when Adam and Richie get back."

Joe's voice turned tentative. "You're sure it's a when?"

"Yes. No." He glanced over to Greta, her eyes were closed but her breathing was too shallow for her to be asleep. "I'm giving them another hour; Adam might just be taking the really long route home."

And then he felt it, just a tingling at the edge of his senses, the impact of an Immortal coming closer. There was no second hit, only one person and he had no way of knowing who.

"Joe, I have to go – someone's just made it back. Or there's someone else out there entirely. I'll call."

He hung up without waiting for a reply and stood with renewed energy as the rush of Challenge preparation hit him. Even knowing who it was likely to be did nothing to stop the body's instinct to ready for a fight. As far as he knew, it was just another part of being Immortal.

A key scraped in the lock and Adam let himself in, closing the door quickly behind him and smiling briefly before crossing to the window without a word. MacLeod stood where he was and let the man make his peace with the outside world for as long as he could before he had to ask.

"Where's Richie?"

More abrupt than he'd meant to be and he was beginning to regret it before a coolness settled over Methos' features. Of course, he should have expected the old man, not the researcher.

"He was hit, I left him."

"You left him behind?"

"Last time I looked, yes I'd have to say he was behind."

MacLeod swung, the waiting rage finding its opening and taking it without hesitation. The hilt of the katana found its target, slicing open the man's cheek as he fell back onto the bed.

"He tried!" Greta sat bolt upright, scrabbling to get between them. "He couldn't drag Richie any further so he pushed him into the river and ran."

The fire banked down again, but mortification turned to a tired kind of anger as he stared at Methos but spoke to the woman in the way. "Greta, can you phone Joe and tell him Adam's turned up and Richie's in the Seine again? See if he can pick him up on the way over. Le Blues, second button down."

As she moved, casting them both dubious looks, he held out a hand to Adam who brushed it aside and rose on his own. Flickering blue wrapped around the jagged tear the hilt had left on his skin, it was the work of seconds before the mark was gone entirely.

Then MacLeod stepped forward, crowding the expressionless man back towards the kitchen. When they were inside he closed the door and spoke as evenly and plainly as he could, wondering if he was talking to a stone-wall doing an impression of a man.

"I don't know why you're trying to see how far you can push me, Methos, and right now I don't care." No response, he kept going doggedly. "I get you don't want anyone relying on you, I get you're just a guy and you like to be unpredictable and if you want to manipulate me the rest of the time, you go right ahead until you get the answers you want. But until we're done with this, you stop."

There was still no real answer, only the strange smile and slight dip of the head that had greeted him when he'd first met the Immortal and spoken his real name in a sudden flash of inspired lateral thinking. It didn't give him much hope his words had been taken to heart.

"Shall I make some coffee?" The object of his exasperation's tone was mild but not dangerously so.

He relaxed and uncrossed his arms to take a less aggressive stance. "A lot of it. And Greta needs a shower."

"So do you. You smell like … actually, no, I don't want to analyse what you smell like. You haven't touched anything that can't be burned have you?"

"I'll take a shower. You're going to have to lend me some clothes. And Richie. And Greta."

"I suppose this is some kind of karma. Mi casa es …"

"… su casa … I know." He caught the wandering gaze for a moment and gave a wry smile. "I'm sorry."

"De nada." The answering shrug was careless and as Gallic as native's and he wished, just once, for Greta's ability to know what was going on inside the ancient head.


	5. Part 5

MacLeod had planted himself in the chair by the phone after his shower and was watching the object as if it was liable to attempt an escape. Some of the man's usual dignity had been stripped by the borrowed clothes he now wore, which were the only ones that fit him - a Mickey Mouse t-shirt and green drawstring pants a decade old that were more frayed edge and hole than anything else now. It should have made him ridiculous; it barely managed to make him eye-catching. Methos scowled. It just wasn't fair; vengeance was being denied practically everywhere.

Greta had claimed his bed, huddled so far under the covers only tufts of blond hair peeked out the top. She hadn't said a word after deciding to play Devil's Advocate, just watched them both reproachfully until she'd turned her back and burrowed under the blankets. Hopefully she was asleep by now. Having been given some detail of her adventures, he didn't envy her the nightmares that would come. On the other hand, why should she be the only one without them?

He lingered in the kitchen and told himself it was only because he liked the smell of coffee brewing. He did like the smell of coffee brewing. And the clock gently ticking over the refrigerator was soothing, as was the muted colour of the walls. Even the peeling linoleum had a strange kind of charm, if it was looked at in the right light. The right light possibly being _no_ light but, even so, now he thought about it, it was perfectly obvious he had chosen the best room in the apartment to hide in. Wait in. Damn. It was enough MacLeod's heroic inclinations were starting to rub off on him; the honesty was just too much.

The phone in the next room barely had time for half a ring before it was picked up; he went to lean in the doorway hoping MacLeod wasn't about to scare a student. One of them had developed the habit of calling at unsociable hours when she'd learned helpful Mr Pierson kept them as well. Sweet girl but roughly as suited to a history degree as a lemming.

MacLeod kept his voice low but it was still possible hear one half of a very short conversation with the person they'd been waiting to hear from. "Yeah, thanks Joe. Okay, we'll be here."

He remained slouched against the frame as MacLeod dropped the phone back in its cradle and watched as the man stood and turned to pass on the information. "Joe's found Richie; hauled him out a couple of bridges down. They'll be here in half an hour."

"Want to wake up Greta?"

The lump in the bed stirred and spoke, muffled but audible. "She's awake. She's wondering if it's light yet."

"It's a new day, good morning." Adam spoke cheerfully and watched the girl's head emerge tentatively from its protective covering of the eiderdown. She blinked in the complete lack of morning brightness. "It's still dark."

"It's four a.m., it's technically morning."

She scowled and sat up straighter, keeping the covers around her. "Is Richie okay?"

A cup of coffee was handed to her by a Highlander who was clearly feeling more benevolent than himself. "He's intact. We'll know more when he gets here."

Adam kept his tone light as he interjected - no wish to start an argument but bickering was strangely relaxing. "Hopefully he won't feel the urge to hit me for saving his life as well."

There was a brief hesitation as MacLeod tried to gauge his mood and he made no effort to help him come to a conclusion, keeping his expression as bland as possible. Finally there was a glimmer of amusement and the battle was joined. "I apologised for that."

"So?"

"So it's not polite to bring it up again."

"So?"

"Good point."

"And well made, I thought."

Round one was his and he put a point on the scoreboard as round two began with an opening salvo from the opposition. Greta was already beginning to look from one to the other of them like a spectator at a tennis match.

"Where did you get this t-shirt?" MacLeod's fingers plucked at the red and blue monstrosity with the grinning mouse on the front.

"Disneyland. You don't like it? I would have thought the wholesomeness would appeal."

"You went to Disneyland?"

He'd never been to Disneyland; a misguided but well meaning student from the University had bought the t-shirt back for him. But now he was seriously considering it if only so he could regale MacLeod with more details and see if he could make his eyebrows retreat any further into his hairline. "Any reason I shouldn't have? It's only a few miles away."

"Don't talk; I'm trying to realign my world view again."

"Sounds painful."

"Did you wear mouse ears?"

"No, there were no ears of any animal of any kind." He answered with complete honesty and a wide smile.

"Thank God."

Another point on the board in his column. He hummed the Small World tune until he saw MacLeod's fingers twitch towards the katana, then retreated back into the kitchen. Vengeance was where you found it.

When the buzz of a new Immortal came he cast his eye around for his sword and, seeing it precisely where he had left it, stayed where he was. If it was Richie and Joe he wouldn't want to get in the way of a family reunion. If it wasn't, he wouldn't want to get in the way of MacLeod decapitating anyone unfortunate enough to have decided tonight was a fantastic time to make a Challenge.

The door opened a few moments later and he could smell the particularly pungent odour of the Seine seconds after it closed. Definitely Richie and Joe. The words of the resulting conversation were unintelligible, but the tones were relieved and grumbling. Joe's more gravely voice underscored now and then with Greta's lighter one murmuring quietly at the end.

Adam poured the coffee, added healthy amounts of whisky and sugar to all the cups, and then bore them out of the kitchen on his only tray. It was practically nutritious enough to be breakfast.

Richie pointed at him immediately, outrage written in every still-dripping line. "He pushed me in the river!"

"He could have just left you for them to pick up, it's not his fault you were hit."

If anyone was going to speak up for the defence, he would have expected it to be Greta again, but instead MacLeod had risen to the occasion. From another it would have been sheer hypocrisy, but somehow the Scot managed to make it something cleaner. It remained a constant mystery how he did it.

Richie calmed down under the firm gaze and gave a nod. "Yeah, I guess. I just can't believe I was sleeping with the fishes twice in one night."

"I think you need more concrete than that to be sleeping with the fishes. Ask Benny some time." MacLeod ruffled his student's hair, then remembered where he had just spent the last two hours and looked at his hand as if wondering whether to boil it clean.

This time when Richie looked over, the degree of glee at MacLeod's plight matching Adam's own was clear. His apology more informal than his teacher's had been but still sincere. "Sorry, man."

It was on the tip of his tongue to make a comment calculated to leave the child smarting, just as it had been to make one to MacLeod earlier in the kitchen. The closer he let them get, the more he let them get comfortable, the worse it was going to be in the end. "Coffee?"

That wasn't what he'd meant to say at all. He winced and handed around the mugs, trying to ignore the look amused look Joe was giving him. The man may not have had Greta's talents, but he had a disconcerting way of seeing what was going on anyway. Must have been all that Watcher training.

Obviously he just needed some sleep and he'd be himself again. Well, perhaps not himself; someone like himself but without the tendency to raze villages to the ground.

Joe raised the thin manila file he had been carrying and looked around, speaking into the momentary silence. "Okay, boys and girl, we have the intel on one Henri Montoya."

Adam waved sleep a mental goodbye and pointedly sprawled over his bed with his coffee in hand, taking solace in selfishness as the others were left to arrange themselves less comfortably around the room. At least he took solace in it until Joe unceremoniously moved his legs and took a seat on the edge of the mattress. Muttering, he drew himself up and settled into a smaller corner, only to find Greta and Richie promptly took advantage and descended on the other side.

The coffee jumped in the mug from their rush and splashed on his hand; he plotted the ways he could kill everyone in the room with the minimum of effort and still have time for eight hours sleep before fleeing the country. Joe coughed and went on.

"Montoya, Henri. Dual nationality - Spanish father and a French mother - he spent time in both countries growing up. Born in sixty-five, joined the army when he turned eighteen and died last year – training accident."

MacLeod spoke quietly from his seat in the chair he'd occupied most of the night. "He was talking fast for a corpse."

"Yeah, well, that's the public records." Joe gave an unimpressed huff that made it clear what he thought of that as he shuffled the sheets to the back of the small pile of print-outs. "I ran a search through some of the other databases we have access to and he pops up again. He got seconded to another unit. We don't have much on these guys, they don't seem to be attached to a government but they're not mercs either – they've got black bag funding from a number of very official places."

"How official are we talking?" MacLeod's voice was sober, seeing the threat that had probably escaped Richie and Greta, maybe even Joe to a certain extent. Nothing made you more aware of the government than the news it might be aware of you.

"NSA, MI-6, Mossad … name an agency of a world power and they're in there."

"Wait, you lost me. Black bag?" Richie looked from Joe to MacLeod and received a succinct answer.

"Money that's attributed to one thing on paper but winds up being used for something else."

"Oh. Yeah. So these guys are government funded but not run?"

Joe shrugged and flicked through the papers again. "We don't know that, just that a whole lotta people are going to a whole lotta trouble not to be responsible for them."

"They got a name or they just 'Those Guys'? 'Cause I can see how that would look funny on the books."

"They got a name - Xerxesi. That mean anything to you?" Joe was looking at MacLeod, giving Adam the time to school his expression against the sen-surround of memory that hit him.

_Sap on green leaves, dead pine needles under his feet and his sword at the neck of the Traveller as his rightful quarry crashes away through the undergrowth in escape._ _"Who are you?"_

"_Just a Traveller."_

_Serene eyes; too kind, too understanding, too weakening. The point of his sword dropping against his will, suddenly too heavy to lift a moment longer._ _"An Immortal."_

"_I cannot be both?"_

_Logic he can't dispute and he asks the oldest question he knows._ _"What do you want from me?"_

"_I want nothing."_

_The answer is the oldest lie. A hand on his arm he wants to shake away but can't remember how._ _"Everyone wants something."_

"_Then I want you to drink this and regain your strength. We have far to walk."_

_How can they walk in this snow? Where has the snow gone? Snow under the skeletons of trees._ _"What is your name?"_

"_Xerxes, for now."_

_The taste of the name wrong for the accent, the lilt given it softening the meaning._ _"You are not Persian."_

"_No."_

_A small wooden bowl in his hands, a clear green shimmer within it, silver on the surface. A sip before he remembers to ask, "What am I drinking?"_

"_A mould culture."_

The strength of the memory of the taste almost had him spitting out the coffee in his mouth, but he managed to swallow at the last moment and catch the end of MacLeod's response to Joe. "… don't know. Does it mean anything to you?"

Now MacLeod was staring at him and this was it. He could tell them, he probably should tell them. He violently didn't want to. He shook his head. "No."

"You don't look like it means nothing to you." He hoped Joe had long line of progeny that he could make regret their ancestor's acute observations.

Now Greta was looking at him and he closed his eyes for a moment before opening them.

Dispassion was found; he wrapped cruelty around it and smiled. "If you insist then, yes, it means something to me. It's a name Darius used for a time. If you're looking for the original meaning, it's 'Prince'. It's a little pretentious for a holy man but I suppose it's better than 'King', which is what Darius means ..."

"So what does your name mean, 'know-it-all'?" An off the cuff question from Richie and he smiled vaguely at the boy until he saw him pale, then shrugged with affected nonchalance. "Maybe I'm the utterance of my name. I am senseless and I am wise, after all."i

There were blank expressions on all sides until Joe turned slightly to fix him with a slightly sour look. "You're something, all right. It's too late to start quoting Gnostic texts."

He gave a mocking clap as the reference was caught, then settled back and awaited the flood of questions he could see looming on the horizon of the Highlander's steady attention.

He wasn't kept waiting.

"Do you think it's linked?"

"I haven't seen any Chronicles that would suggest it. Who could say?"

"You could, Adam. Do these people have any connection to Darius?"

"Well, not anymore unless they've managed to find a talented medium."

"Don't." The glint was lost in a flash of sorrow he sternly reminded himself he didn't feel the slightest bit of guilt for provoking.

Given the advantage for the moment, he sharpened the edge of his tone to remind everyone in the room that anything he was going to say was definitely not going to implicate him as the world's oldest Immortal in front of Richie. "They might. I am but a simple Researcher, MacLeod. I don't know."

Liar.

So?

A good point … and well made.

Oh, good, his inner thoughts were arguing with each other. He could have lived without the voice of the conscience he'd been attempting to eradicate for years having a slight Scottish burr.

It was impossible for an Immortal to sneak up, but even so he almost missed the signal that glazed over MacLeod's eyes, too caught up in his own mind, but it cut through as they always did in the end. He uncurled himself from his bed and reached for his sword, a step behind joining the Highlander and Richie at the door.

When it came, the knocking was less than polite but recognition of the voice made him lower his sword. He promptly considered raising it again when he heard the tone.

"Adam Pierson, you let me in this instant! I know you're in there!"

MacLeod jerked open the door to reveal the fuming figure of Amanda standing on the threshold with one hand on her hip and the other raised to knock again. Her eyes widened and she propelled herself forward, sending MacLeod back with an armful of ex 'I'm really reformed this time' thief.

"I went to the barge and the place was swarming with police and this horrible bald little Inspector was saying you probably hadn't made it out after it exploded!"

MacLeod attempted to talk through the smattering of kisses being delivered over his face. "LeBrun?"

"I didn't ask his name!" She released the man at last. "You scared the hell out of me, MacLeod. I'm wondering whether to hit you or kiss you."

"Do I get a vote? What are you doing here?"

"I'll give you a moment to rephrase that before I make my decision."

"Amanda, light of my life, it's a joy beyond all measure to see you again and my heart is composing poetry on every strand of your very, very blond hair as we speak. What are you doing here?"

She kicked him in the ankle, and then drew him down for another quick kiss - the chaos butterfly in action. "I came to see you, of course. I had a few days free and … Joe! Richie!"

Another kick sent MacLeod hopping out the way and she hugged the other men in turn, holding out her hand to Greta who reacted just like others meeting Amanda for the first time tended to, with stunned bemusement.

Adam muttered under his breath and closed the door, the apartment was entirely too small for this sort of thing. "Did someone order a Gathering and forget to tell me?"

Amanda paced back to his side with a sweet smile that gave him immediate cause to worry but only linked her arm with his. "Don't be grouchy."

"I can be grouchy if I want to." He attempted to extricate himself but she hung on tightly. There didn't seem to be a crowbar within reach so he let her stay there after a brief and futile struggle.

"You can, but then I won't give you your present."

"If it's a kick I'll decline, thank you."

"It's a book. Well, more of a parchment. I tripped over it in Istanbul."

MacLeod spoke up sharply. "You mean you stole it in Istanbul. What were you doing in Istanbul?"

They both ignored the man and, despite himself, Adam knew he was looking interested. Fluency in the universal language of bribery didn't make him immune to it. "I'll play nicely with the other children."

He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, a fleeting brush. There were precious few he felt affection for and fewer still he was inclined to show it to, but Amanda had won it fairly with a night in the train yards and he was man enough to admit defeat.

"Is anyone planning to tell me what you're all doing here, and why Duncan's barge is at the bottom of the Seine?"

Richie returned to the bed and dropped back with a groan. "We should make a slide show so we don't have to keep answering that."

"Here, read my notes." Joe held the manila folder towards her with a fast grin that Methos couldn't help but notice had more than a hint of wicked in it.

MacLeod reacted as Joe had obviously been anticipating after watching the file change hands. "You're taking notes?"

"See the tattoo here? Watcher." Joe helpfully raised his sleeve and gave a visual reminder of the blue mark on his inner wrist.

"Are you planning on adding this to my Chronicle?"

"No reason not to, is there? Besides, there are two other Watchers out there taking notes as well, if mine don't tally there'll be hell to pay."

Amanda spoke from her perusal of the information, looking up as she licked the end of her finger and turned a page. "Martin isn't, I left him in Athens."

"Neither's Mike, we lost him in London." Greta added a nod of confirmation to Richie's words and suddenly it was Joe's turn to be aghast.

"You've been ditching your Watchers!?"

With a negligent wave of her hand, Martin's errant Immortal dismissed the concept that perhaps she shouldn't have left him stranded in an airport. "Oh, please, they enjoy it. It makes things more exciting."

"I seriously doubt Marty's thrilled, Amanda, he's getting too old for those kinds of shocks."

"I always leave a little clue."

Joe rounded on Richie as Amanda failed to be moved. "And Mike is keeping his eye on you as a personal favour to me, he has better things to do than figure out where you've gone."

He was met with an overly innocent expression, the very model of a lack of repentance. "He kinda doesn't, it's his job isn't it?"

"It's not your job to make it harder for him. I'm gonna give them a heads up."

Richie grinned as he watched Joe make a beeline for the phone. "Are we being told off by the organisation secretly keeping tabs on us for not making it easy on them?"

"Yes."

"Okay, just so we're clear."

"Joe?" Amanda's voice was mildly questioning, Joe growled in response as he punched in the number of HQ. "What?"

"Does this say Michael Doyle?"

Dawn broke half-heartedly at best. Only the increased visibility of the continuous drizzle suggested that, somewhere behind the thick grey clouds, the sun was trying to do a day's work.

Adam's bed had been firmly annexed by Greta and Richie, MacLeod had taken the sofa and Amanda lay over the man like a second blanket. Joe had made do with the easy chair and spare blanket. He himself had spent the last three hours stood by the window; sleep held darkness he didn't want to explore and it hadn't been altruism that had led to him volunteering to watch over them until daylight.

Despite Amanda having actually heard of Doyle, courtesy of Rebecca, she hadn't been able to shed any more light on what he was doing in Paris or where he had been - the full extent of her knowledge was his name and to avoid him at all costs and, for once, she'd taken the teaching to heart. Disappointment had crept into his relief; it would have been nice not to be the buck's proverbial last stop.

With nothing more to keep them awake, a few hours respite had been taken and he had been left with thoughts that he couldn't quite put a logical narrative to. It seemed pointless to keep searching for answers in events that hadn't held them a half a millennium ago and were certainly not going to have them now.

He reached for his coat and held it in his arms as he picked his way quietly towards the door. Pierson had no reason to practise stealth but Methos found old skills still sharp and _knew_ he made no noise to alert anyone as he opened the door to leave.

The whisper was just loud enough to carry to him without waking any of the other sleepers. "Where are you going?"

He'd made no noise, but he _had_ forgotten the Highlander was a notoriously early riser. A half truth came to mind and he used it without hesitation as he glanced back, hand still on the door. "The bakery. We need food and I'm not stocked to feed the five-thousand."

A bare nod and MacLeod carefully began the process of extricating himself from under Amanda. "I'll come with you."

"I'm reasonably confident I can make it to the _boulangerie_ and back without being beheaded." Briefly he considered just leaving but MacLeod would only follow him and it was far too early, not to mention pointless, to start yet another battle of wills.

"You probably could." With an amiable grin MacLeod finally managed to disengage himself from Amanda's grip; she rolled over with a sigh and settled again immediately.

He tried another gambit. "You can't go out wearing those clothes; you'll scare small children and the elderly."

With a wince he realised he'd set MacLeod up with the perfect straight-line, but the man just shrugged and smiled slightly. "I'll wear my coat."

"I want some peace and quiet."

"I won't talk."

"I …"

"Yes, I know - intense dislike, right?" MacLeod picked up his shoes and coat and ushered him out the door, shutting it with a barely audible click behind them, continuing in a whisper as they donned their coats and, in one case, shoes. "Where were you really going?"

Peevishly he stuck to his story, seeing no compelling reason to make life easy on the man. "The bakery, it's too early for devious machinations."

"Uh huh." With the buttons of the long-coat done up and his hair pulled back, MacLeod looked more or less presentable even though the frayed edges of the violently green pants were still visible – not to mention the vivid red collar of the t-shirt. It was enough to restore some of his good humour as they made their way down the stairs and he let it show in his tone as he grumbled.

"I don't get up in the morning and wonder what fantastically convoluted plot to try today. Even when I have plans they never last longer than an hour before something happens to blow them out of the water. Improvisation. Adaptability. That's how you stay alive."

MacLeod was silent on the last flight and he stopped on the last step and turned to face him, trying to make him understand again and knowing he was doomed to failure. "You're mistaking experience for thought - I'm not the ultimate mastermind any more than I'm the ultimate wise man. I'm not the ultimate anything."

The man's stare went on for some time, honestly searching for something and it nearly gave him hope before the almost apologetic half smile appeared. "I don't believe you, Methos. Things turn out the way you want them to too many times. I'll buy you don't have a plan, but you still manipulate everyone around you. You're the ultimate survivor and I guess that's what ultimate survivors do."

Anger flared for a moment that this Scottish thug, this child, refused to see anything outside the blinkers of his own limited experience and still presumed to have an opinion. It was even worse that the assessment wasn't entirely wrong, it just wasn't right in the right places. He shoved the emotion aside quickly before it could become obvious, turning his back to resume the walk to the door. "I'm starting to wonder about that, you're not healthy to know. As a doctor I may have to advise myself to stop associating with you."

"You haven't been a doctor in a hundred years; they've come up with a lot of new cures since then."

"I'm fairly sure they haven't invented one for beheading yet."

The cold morning was a slap in the face as they left the warmth of the building and started down the road; he hunched his shoulders against it and pulled his coat tighter. The fact MacLeod didn't seem to be affected at all did nothing for his mood. Scots!

"Where were you really going?"

"I thought you said you'd be quiet."

"I lied."

"The bakery. Look, there it is." He pointed to the little shop on the corner, one of the few with the lights on and open for business.

"Adam …" A hand on his arm made him glance over to the other man.

With a slightly overdone sigh, he tugged his arm away. "I was going to look at the bridge, see if there was anything there."

MacLeod released him at once and fell into step beside him again. "Richie didn't say which one it was." The slight question in the statement was neutral and, despite a burning desire to remain irritated, he did appreciate the effort that the annoying one was taking to keep civil.

Of course, it meant he had to make a concession too. And MacLeod had the nerve to call him manipulative. Unsure whether to remain irritated or go with the irony he finally gave in a mix of both. "I know. Go on, ask, I know you want to."

The question came quickly, as if MacLeod were trying to beat a time limit. "Who are the Xerxesi?"

"Who they are now, I honestly have no idea. The name _was_ used as a sort of collective noun for a group Darius taught. It's centuries old and it was never exactly official, more of a nickname. I doubt it's even a footnote in a Chronicle somewhere"

"Darius didn't train anyone to kill." MacLeod was so very certain and he wanted to resent that faith, but he couldn't.

"Probably not, but people have free will. One of his students could have taken on the cause and changed it to suit them. Or it could just be coincidence, they do happen."

"But it still doesn't answer why they'd be after us."

"Next time you could ask one of them before half killing him, he might be more amenable to a chat."

There was a grunt he suspected was something like an agreement, then MacLeod switched topic. "Darius was the one who stopped you killing Doyle. Why?"

"Michael always claimed the person who took his head would become like him, a walking plague. We didn't understand he would have had to have infected himself deliberately, it was like he controlled it all. Maybe Darius thought I'd make a more dangerous carrier than Michael, he'd have had no way of knowing it wouldn't transfer either."

"Or he knew it would. We've known how contagion works for a long time, but Michael's still around. Is it possible the Xerxesi are protecting him for some reason?"

And there is was again, the apparently simple and straight-forward MacLeod making leaps of logic and intuition that it was almost offensive for him to be able to make.

He mumbled something non-committal, pushed open the door to the bakery and was immediately enveloped in the smell and heat of bread fresh from ovens. If he closed his eyes and ignored everything save that smell, he could be five thousand years past in a heartbeat.

The bell jangling on the door as it closed behind his unwanted escort rudely interrupted his nostalgia and he opened his eyes to grin broadly to Madame LaSeille.

She was a small, thin woman who steadfastly fought the cliché that, as a baker, she should be spherical. Her staff all called her _Maman_ - whether they were her children or not - and he had never seen her without a smile or a friendly welcome, even to the tourists who plagued her existence.

Now she looked tired, there were dark smudges under her eyes. Of the usual four bakers behind the counter, there were only two and he supposed that was the reason for her appearance. Her voice was as brisk and welcoming as ever.

"You're early, _mon enfant_. The bread is barely out of the oven. Have you even slept? You've been reading all night, haven't you? You need sleep and proper food, you should hire my sister's niece to cook for you. She's a good girl, she'd keep you fed. Too thin!" She tutted and he tried to ignore the second baker's giggle and the suspicious silence behind him. If he was going to lose all dignity today, it was probably just as well to get it over with early.

He spoke with the shreds he had left and promised himself if MacLeod ever spoke of this again; he could take his head with a clear conscience. "I'm here for the good of Paris. I have company from out of town, I'd rather feed them than let them loose in an unsuspecting city to hunt for their own breakfasts."

"You shouldn't worry; we have repelled Barbarian hoards before. Did you bring one with you?" Her eyes glittered her amusement as she appraised MacLeod.

"He's carrying everything."

Finally, from behind him, MacLeod spoke. His voice was quiet and slightly forced, very much as if he were striving not to laugh out loud. "I am?"

"You are. And you're paying." As dire revenge went it didn't really make much of an impact. It was just going to be one of those days.

In the end, both left the warm little _boulangerie_ burdened down with bags - MacLeod having reminded him how much Richie was capable of eating. As least they acted as a kind of windbreaker, and the heat of the fresh bread seeped through his coat enough to make the walk back almost pleasant. Then MacLeod began to speak with the thoughtful tone he was beginning to dislike almost as much as the judge and jury version.

"Were you the one who gave Darius the Fifth Chronicle?"

"Nope." It was something he was inordinately happy about. That Chronicle had gotten the Immortal killed and it had been absolutely nothing to do with him. The sensation of complete innocence was unusual enough to bring a bright smile to his face, earning him a slightly bemused glance.

"I wonder how he found out about it."

"Darius moved in mysterious ways." This time he did regret the flash of hurt that appeared, MacLeod had done nothing to deserve it this time.

"Why do you keep mocking him? He was a good and honourable man." The absolute certainty in the words drove out the prick of conscience, he responded as flippantly as he could. Hero worship was one thing, but Darius had been no deity to have such blind faith in. It was petty and cruel and it felt wonderful.

"So are they all, all honourable men."

"Stop it."

"You don't like Shakespeare?"

"I don't like having to repeat myself. Why?"

Adam shrugged and then moved quickly to avoid dropping half his bags. "I mock everyone, Highlander. He may have been a living saint to you but he wasn't when I first met him. Oh, he was showing the signs but he was younger, barely over a thousand."

But MacLeod wasn't going to play. An indrawn breath and then another and the man answered with level amusement. "That's still old."

"Yes, well, when you're a thousand years old, say that to me with a straight face and I'll buy a round of drinks."

"You think either of us will be around in five years, let alone five-hundred?"

"No, why do you think I offered to buy the drinks?"

"You don't respect who he became because you know who he was?"

The relaxed tone had lulled him into a false sense of security and he answered too quickly. "That's not it."

"Oh, I think it is - I'm just trying to work out why. You of all people …" He was expecting smugness he could retaliate against but it wasn't there, just the same light questioning. Oh, MacLeod was getting dangerously good at this.

"I, of all people, can't."

"You shouldn't be respected?"

"I am who I am, Highlander, and that's enough."

"Who are you?"

"A man who wants some coffee and a shower and I don't care who's in my way."

"I can respect that." MacLeod grinned and stepped aside to allow him to unlock the front door.

"Now who's mocking who?"

They climbed the stairs back up to the apartment to find Amanda frowning in the doorway, wearing a worn blue bathrobe Methos vaguely recognised as his own and tapping her foot in agitation. All that was missing was the hair-curlers and they'd have a 50's sit-com ready to go.

"Next time you go in the middle of a crisis, leave a note. Joe's been frantic."

Joe's voice called cheerfully from somewhere at the back of the apartment. "No I haven't."

"Richie was concerned."

A slightly more groggy voice was just audible from the direction of the bed. "Richie was asleep. Richie goin' back t'sleep."

"Greta was mildly anxious."

Greta passed behind her, wrapped in a towel. "I was in the shower."

Finally she gave up and raised her fist. "Don't leave me without a note again!"

Adam slipped by her with a grin. "Is that a mothering instinct rearing its ugly head or are you normally this neurotic in the mornings?"

She took one of the bags, frown deepening. "Don't start, I know where you sleep."

"Or don't sleep, more to the point." He rooted through his drawers and found some clothes that hadn't been sacrificed to his guests, gathering them fast before swinging around to face the woman again. "You're between me and a shower, I suggest you move."

With a now fully fledged scowl she moved and he escaped into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him slightly louder than necessary. Peace descended at last and, as an added blessing, there was still hot water left.

When he emerged he felt like a new man and vaguely considered becoming one with the emergency ID he had stashed at the back of his sock drawer. He could probably make it to the airport before anyone noticed. But the scent of freshly brewed coffee was too strong to resist and he padded barefoot into the kitchen to find everyone else gathered there in various stages of wakefulness.

They looked up as one, conversation ceasing. He fought the urge to see whether his hair was sticking up and just took the cup Joe handed to him with a nod of thanks. "Do we have a plan yet or shall I go away again?"

MacLeod spoke around half a croissant from where he'd managed to claim counter leaning space at the back. "We have a plan."

He snagged a small roll and looked around for the preserve, replying as he risked life and limb by removing it from Richie's side. "And should I be pleased or terrified?"

"Richie and I are going to the place Darius left … whatever it was he left … it can't be coincidence Greta got the vision and then this happens. Amanda and Joe are going to canvas the streets; maybe they can find where the Xerxesi are operating from."

"I dread to think what I'm doing." There was only one place left, of course. That didn't mean he was going without a fight.

Joe confirmed his deduction, looking entirely too unsympathetic about it. "You're going swimming."

"Did I draw a short straw in absentia? I want a recount."

"You were going to the bridge anyway; we need to know what they threw off."

The Highlander's smile was more sympathetic but it still wasn't enough and he shook his head.

"I said I was going to look, not revisit the joys of hypothermia. Richie can go; it's practically his second home now."

"Richie doesn't know what he's looking for."

"I do?"

"You'd have a better idea. Please, Adam."

He opened his mouth and shut it again, he couldn't really argue with the logic anymore and politeness had more or less been served. He tore off some of his roll and rolled his eyes. "If I get arrested you're breaking me out or you die trying."

Greta spoke up quietly after the murmur of assent had passed. "You never said what I was doing."

He watched MacLeod's slightly amused expression turn serious once more as the man looked to her, command coming easily and mostly unquestioned. He supposed you either had it, or you didn't.

"You're staying here with the door locked and bolted. We'll be relaying information to each other through you, checking in every hour. If someone doesn't call, we all drop everything and look for them. If anyone tries to break in here, you go down the fire-escape and head to Le Blues, that's the fallback point for all of us."

Leaning against the refrigerator, Amanda finished the last swipe of the file against her nails and spoke as she held the hand out before her to inspect it. "Are you planning to speak to the police about the barge? The poor things looked quite upset about it all."

There was an answering groan. "I'm going to have to or I'll have LeBrun following me over half the city."

Now he had to grin at the mental image that provoked and did so, widely, as he refilled his coffee cup and ate the last of his roll. "I can see how that would be awkward when you're attempting some amateur breaking and entering."

Amanda began on her left hand, the file rasping quietly as she spoke with feigned casualness. "Maybe I should go with you; it would be much quicker if there's any real security."

She was thwarted as MacLeod shook his head. "I know it's boring but you and Joe aren't known to the Xerxesi and you'll be more useful on the streets. You both have contacts we don't."

It made Adam's heart glad to see the disgruntled half-snarl half-pout and know Amanda was nearly as unhappy with her assignment as he was with his own.

Her file stabbed out to emphasise her words. "This isn't what I had in mind for a holiday. You owe me, MacLeod."

The target of the, admittedly sharp, implement help up his hands slightly. "I'll make it up to you, I promise."

"You better believe you will." She gracefully pushed herself away from her leaning point and fastidiously brushed a non-existent smudge from her nails, observing their shine before she turned to Joe with a raised brow.

He came forward, leaning on his cane for a moment until sure of his balance, then held out his arm. "May I have the honour of escorting you, Mademoiselle?"

She smiled coquettishly and turned with overdone flounce, looking over her shoulder smugly to MacLeod as they left arm in arm. "Watch and learn."

_Pont Neuf _was a bridge with exactly two virtues, in Adam's opinion. The first was the name – continuing to call the oldest bridge on the Seine 'New Bridge' was just about ironic enough to appeal. The second was the charmingly friendly house of a young woman where he'd spent many a happy evening but as that had been demolished some three-hundred years ago, he decided to strike it from the list.

_Pont Neuf_ was a bridge with exactly one virtue, in Adam's opinion, and that was in severe jeopardy of being heavily outweighed by the fact he was about to jump off the damn thing.

Oh, certainly, he could breathe under the water but, looking down at the glorified open sewer below, he just wasn't sure he wanted to. Not to mention the cold, the sudden wildlife and who knew _what_ else lurking under the murky grey top. He cast his eye to the bag of dry clothes and sword hidden away on the verge below, checked for a dearth of concerned citizens and vaulted over the rail to drop with the force he'd need to make it all the way to the bottom.

He hit the water cleanly, slicing down as the cold smashed into his brain and temporarily froze his thoughts. In defiance of five-thousands years of Immortality, his feet began to kick in a drive to take him to the surface, fighting against the weight of the old long-coat he'd worn to drag him down. After a few seconds he began to think enough to stop struggling but already he could feel the freezing temperature leeching his life away.

His eyes stopped stinging a couple of seconds after he forced them open but it was nearly impossible to see anything through the darkness. The torch in his hand gave some illumination but mostly only served to better define the silt blocking his vision.

Finally his feet touched bottom and he dragged himself towards where he hoped whatever it was that had been thrown would be.

Fingers scrabbled over rock and sand and other things he desperately tried not to identify until they found rough tarpaulin. The strength of the material said it hadn't been down there long and a quick search confirmed his suspicions of its dimensions. Unwillingly he explored further and, as he'd expected, he found chain tethers embedded into the rock. The men throwing the body off the bridge may have been disturbed but they'd come back later to finish the job.

Searching further he found the protruding hilt of a knife embedded in the body, exactly as he'd expected. Hundreds of years and they still hadn't come up with a better method. Observance of tradition had its place but this was sheer stupidity.

His vision began to blur with a blackness that had nothing to do with the silt. As quickly as he could with his actions impeded by the water and lack of feeling in his extremities, he stripped off the old coat and kicked upwards. Breaking the surface, the winter air felt almost pleasantly warm in comparison.

The verge looked impossibly far away and, even worse, it seemed to keep backing away from him. At a crawl he finally came within reaching distance and made a grab for it, his fingers closing twice on the brickwork before he was able to convince his muscles to grip well enough to haul him back onto land.

He knelt at the edge, coughing up the last of the water in his lungs, fairly sure he wasn't going to die but beginning to wish he would. Then he felt the encroaching presence of another Immortal and changed his mind. Life. Life was good.

His body obeyed him enough to stagger the few steps to his sword and he tried not to worry about the fact it took two hands to grip and even then it shook uncontrollably. On one knee he tried to pinpoint where an attacker could conceivably come from.

Not from the river, he was almost certain of that, the build of the buzz had been too slow. Not from the bridge, it was too far away. Not from the cars above either, they would have moved whoever it was well out of range.

Earth slid down the bank behind him and he turned fast, trying to bring himself to both feet and nearly succeeding in falling back into the water, his balance not nearly as sure as it should have been. A slightly muddied figure landed in a crouch ten feet away, short-sword already held before him.

The black hair was shorter and the sunglasses and biker-jacket were most definitely new affects, but his opponent was still instantly recognisable. The smile was thinner and harder than he last remembered but, after six-hundred years, he supposed it would be.

"Stefano."

"Just Stefan now, Mattios." The English was almost flawless enough to completely remove the original accent, but not quite. He sighed and bought his own sword up, trying to ignore the tremors in his hands still running down the blade.

He lapsed deliberately into the native Venetian of the other, keep him talking long enough and he'd be strong enough for the fight that was almost certainly coming. "Stefan, then. You're four-hundred years early."

"I hunt for Doyle, where are you hiding him?"

Well, that was interesting. He gave a rueful smile and was gratified to see it seemed to throw Stefan just a little off balance. "I'm not hiding him anywhere, there are other people doing a surprisingly bad job of that already. If you want him dead, I'd suggest just waiting."

"If I can't have him then I'll take you." Dark eyes glinted sharply like the light on his blade and he met them as calmly as he could. Just a little longer was all he needed.

"No, you won't. You'll die and your family will never be avenged, which seems a bit of a waste of six-hundred years training to kill me."

"This from the man that killed them?" Confusion again, dulling a little of the other's rage. All he had to do was keep Stefan wondering what his game was for another minute.

"Yes, this from the man that killed them - you can't beat me, Stefan, and I won't willingly die for my sins."

The sword sagged a little in doubt at the conviction he'd put in his tone, then flew up again. "You're weak now."

"Not weak enough to lose, weak enough not to spare your head a second time." And now it was true. He didn't want to fight, but he could and he knew he'd win but not so easily he could be sure that a mistake wouldn't cost Stefano his life.

"God guides my blade." The words were strong and proud with conviction and they reminded him strangely of MacLeod, despite the fact he'd never heard the Scot call on a higher power.

He met Stefan's eyes again and this time he let the hoof beats run through his soul as he spoke softly. "Hades follows mine."

Only when the sword had lowered entirely did he let the Horseman go with a shrug and smile. "Michael Doyle is in Paris and I promise you, despite my objections, he is being dealt with. When it's done, if you still want to fight, you'll find me at Le Blues."

"I will find you." The boy snarled his frustration, six-hundred years of rage and pain in eternally fourteen year old eyes. His window of opportunity was past for the moment and he knew it. Without another word Stefan scrambled back up the bank with the fast, awkward sort of grace of his apparent age.

Only when the imprint of the littlest nemesis left his mind did Adam lower his sword and quickly begin to change into his dry clothes. A few minutes later and he was following the same path up, albeit at a slightly more sedate pace, trying to remember where the closest public phone box was so he could give a heavily edited report.

Greta picked up on the first ring but then she _was_ psychic. That or she'd encamped by the phone, à la MacLeod.

"Adam, calling in safe, wet and very cold." He sneezed and made no effort to smother it; nothing quite like spreading the joy to brighten a day.

"Did you find anything?" She sounded perfunctory rather than curious, an odd sort of response but who knew what she'd already picked up.

"Yes, but I'm certainly not going to drag it back up. I'm going to be taking the long route home because I'd be very surprised if I haven't been seen."

"Okay, I'll let the others know when they call."

"No one else has reported in yet?"

"You're the first, there's still twenty minutes to go anyway."

"Do I get a prize?"

Her answers had come more and more slowly, enough to make him wonder if she wasn't occupied with something else as well, but now she came through loud and clear again. "Who was the boy you met?"

Loud, clear and annoyingly clairvoyant. "I said prize, not prying eyes."

"Sorry, I just wanted to know whether I'm meant to pass that on or not."

"I didn't mention it, that would indicate a '_not_', don't you think?"

"You didn't mention it? Are you sure?"

"Very."

"Okay, nix on the boy."

A glance at the timer on the phone showed his money ticking down to the last seconds and he didn't much feel like feeding more coins to Paris' newest Psychic Line. "I'll be back soon."

Greta hung up as the line went dead and tried not to listen to the tick of the clock over the bookcase. She'd skimmed the titles, the ones in English anyway, but it hadn't seemed polite to start handling what were obviously old books without permission. Instead she flicked through a magazine Amanda had left her. Not Cosmo or Vogue as she'd expected, but a trade title for security professionals. It didn't mean anything to her but it was something to do while she waited for the calls to come in.

Her hand was half way to the phone before it began to trill and a flood of images battered against her mind as she drew it to her ear. Amanda and Joe driving, walking, talking and then drinking at a café. Jokes and laughter and two pairs of eyes that never, ever stopped cataloguing what they were seeing. Questions to a nun collecting money on a street corner, a black van they saw once too often for it to be coincidence.

"Hi, Greta. Joe."

_I know._ "Hi, did you find anything?"

"Well, there're a couple of people we've talked to but nothing definite yet."

_I know._ "Anything you want me to pass on to the others?"

"Naw, nothing's come up anyone needs to know about just yet."

_Except the transit._ "Okay, I'll just tell them you're following a van."

"How'd you know about the van?"

_You told me._ "Didn't you mention it?"

"Yeah, guess I musta. Anyone else called in yet?"

_Methos._ "Adam, just a couple of minutes ago. He's on his way back, he found something but he didn't have anything to share."

"Sounds like Adam. I'll get gone; Mac might be trying to get through. Call again in an hour."

_No, you won't._ "Joe! Wait."

"Yeah?"

"Come back to the apartment."

"Why, you getting lonely or something?"

His tone was gently concerned and she realised how ridiculous she sounded. "No, I just … don't follow the van, you won't call back." Lame. Lame, lame, lame.

"Okay, we're on our way back now. If something comes up, it's a black Ford Transit. Plates are foreign. S.C.V. four-thirty."

Amanda watched as Joe put the phone down, wondering what had caused the man's slightly troubled expression and their sudden change of plans. "We're going back? I thought we were following this up."

"Nope, Greta's calling that a no-go." He shrugged and leaned on his cane but he didn't seem in any great hurry to pack up and go home; still thinking about it. She could work with that.

"We're taking orders from a child now? A perfectly nice child, lovely in a Rain Man sort of way, wonderful for Richie, but …"

"She says we won't call back if we follow the van."

That gave her pause for all of half a second before she thought of the hundred and one ways that could be interpreted and proceeded to list a few with a confident tone and bright smile.

"Maybe she meant, you know, followed it all the way. We could follow it a little bit. Or, maybe, we don't call back because we've just lost track of time. A sudden grid failure on that block…"

Now she let a careful hint of pleading in, trying to appeal to his desire not to waste the time they'd spent that morning. "Joe, it's _right_ there and no one crossed her palm with silver at breakfast. We can see where it goes and then we'll go home."

Seeing him wavering, she crossed her arms and tried to hit a pitch of determination that would match his. "I am not going to spend any more time walking around the streets looking like a lost tourist finding that thing again."

Finally she smiled and moved in for the killing blow, walking in the most sensuous manner she could muster. He surrendered before she got within a foot; there was just no fun to be had with some people.

"Okay, okay, we'll go to the door but we're sure as hell not knockin' to come in."

"You have a deal, Mr. Dawson."

"I mean it, Amanda."

"I know you do." She patted his cheek and swept past him to slide into the passenger seat of the car.

With a light groan, Joe crossed over to the driver's side. At least with customised controls he wouldn't have to be the passenger with an Immortal driving. They always figured speed limits and slowing at turns were things that happened to other people.

The van drew away and, a careful two or three cars behind, he followed it through the twisting streets and towering old buildings of the Latin Quarter.

Richie looked up from his perch on the alley wall as he felt the brush of an Immortal pass at some speed. When it didn't reappear, he checked his watch then whistled down quietly.

A moment later his teacher's head appeared out of the open sewer hole with a light smattering of dust covering his hair and shoulders. "Time?"

He slid down from the wall and rummaged in the bag at his feet, finding the bottle of water and handing it over. "Uh huh, want I should go do it?"

MacLeod took the bottle with a smile of thanks and opened it, drinking down half before he replied. "Yeah, I want to keep working at this."

"We actually got anything to report now?" Their report was going to be the worst, he just knew it. Adam had probably found whatever had been thrown off the bridge and had a spare moment to solve world hunger, Joe and Amanda would have done the Hardy Boys thing and be having weird French scones with the Police Commissioner, and he and Mac were looking at a hole in the ground. A really bad smelling hole in the ground. With rats.

"We're still alive."

Oh yeah, it was a red letter day. "You still haven't found the way in there yet?"

"I've found it; I'm trying to work out how to open it. This could take a while."

While Mac looked unconcerned, Richie was ready to try killing himself with a spoon just to relieve the boredom. Maybe if he helped it would go faster. "Want me to come look?"

"Not unless you took a course in structural engineering lately." The tone was dry but he knew the man well enough to see the humour that nearly always lurked below the surface.

He crouched down with a grin, always willing to argue his case when he was given a half a chance. "And you have? That time with Anne in the subway totally doesn't count."

"Well, not lately then. But I have worked in a mine."

"And this is like a mine how?"

"A pick in the wrong place and you get your own tomb."

Well okay then, death by spoon it was. "You're right, there's not enough room for two. I'll just go report we're still breathing and ask if Adam's got any industrial digging equipment lying around. Just, you know, in case."

MacLeod grinned as he watched Richie retreat down the street, then lowered himself back down in the darkness again. The sewer wasn't one of his favourite places in the world but it did offer the easiest access to the catacombs running beneath the city and it was somewhere in that warren, he was sure, Darius had managed to sneak people out.

Mortar, newer than the rest but still centuries old, cemented in a thick block of stone under the apartment block. His disquiet grew. It wasn't just that Darius had left him something; it was that he must have done it before they'd even met. He knew the Priest had precognitive dreams, but that was stretching belief.

Carefully he began to scrape away once more. Soon he'd have to abandon the project, it was the work of more than a day and he had an appointment to see LeBrun in the afternoon. His mind turned to that problem as he resumed chipping with the light pick.

By now the forensics would have detected traces of an explosive so claiming a gas leak was definitely out of the question. A case of mistaken identity might wash. He wouldn't be believed, of course, but the important thing was that it couldn't be disproved. Then there were the bodies under the bridge. The morning paper had reported the explosion, but not any casualties. If the Xerxesi had taken care of the cleaning, that would be a bonus.

Another chunk of mortar fell away and he turned his gaze up to the ceiling of the vaulted roof. A large crack ran along it, dust drifting down. In another ten years the weight of the buildings and traffic above it would have collapsed the entire passage; his work was accelerating the process. Still, he was reasonably confident nothing would fall for the moment.

Then again, what he hadn't mentioned to Richie was, while he had been a miner, he hadn't been a particularly good one.

Another clump of mortar so hard it was almost rock itself came away and revealed a small gap between the stone and the wall. He worked at the chink for a few minutes longer and then climbed back out of the manhole. A pair of knees blocked his vision and he looked up sharply into the gentle smile of Inspector LeBrun.

"M'sieur MacLeod."

"Inspector."

The man stood and backed away far enough to let him finish climbing out. The trick wasn't to look innocent, both knew he wasn't, the trick was to look like there was nothing LeBrun could do about it. So he returned the smile cheerfully as he dusted off his hands.

LeBrun looked unimpressed. "I was waiting at the station but when the call came in of a man matching your description illegally tampering with civic works, I thought this would be easier. So, which charge would you like to answer first, MacLeod?"

"Want to give me the list?" He took another long drink from his water bottle and felt the slight buzz of an Immortal waiting at range. At least Richie had the sense not to come closer.

"Insurance fraud."

"You're digging."

"As are you, which we'll come to shortly. Your barge was worth a great deal of money."

"Yes, it was. And if I was going to perpetrate insurance fraud, there are better ways to go about it."

"Where were you when it exploded?"

A mildly interested tone and nothing of his personal opinion in his expression, purely the professional. LeBrun was good at his job and he'd never underestimated the man. They'd had a tentative understanding briefly, but he doubted it would hold much weight now.

"With a friend."

"The name of your friend?"

"Adam Pierson."

"Pierson … he was the man who identified the killer of another friend of yours, was he not?"

"An acquaintance. You have a good memory, Inspector."

The thin smile came again with no mirror in his impassive gaze. "I take a great interest in your file."

"I'd wait for the movie, myself."

"And you and M'sieur Pierson left the barge when?"

"Adam wasn't at the barge at all; we met up at a bar and left about ten."

"I see. Witnesses reported gunfire shortly before and after the explosion."

"Did they?"

"They did."

They looked at each other for a long moment and he had a sudden disconcerting feeling that he may not be able to talk his way out of this one as cleanly as he'd hoped. "Any leads on who did it yet?"

"Just one, M'sieur." LeBrun continued to look at him unblinkingly and then shrugged. "But we are investigating other avenues as well. You will be required to make a full statement, which you can do after I arrest you for this."

"You're arresting me for opening a sewer grate?"

"No, I'm arresting you for climbing down there, unless you have an authorised work permit?"

"I must've left it in my other pants. Give me a break, LeBrun. This is a fining offence at most."

An eyebrow rose and for the first time there was a real emotion behind it, distinct pleasure. "It's my discretion and my discretion tells me you're a dangerous man to leave to his own devices. Will I need the cuffs?"

i From "The Thunder, Perfect Mind"


	6. Part 6

If telephone staring were ever to become an Olympic sport, Adam was pretty sure Team Immortal would be in with a good chance for the Gold. He'd resisted being hypnotised by its unrelenting silence far longer than Greta who, once she'd let him in, had been enthralled immediately. At least he'd managed to make a sandwich first. He hadn't eaten it yet, but that was beside the point.

"Joe and Amanda should have been back by now, even if they were going the long way." She spoke without turning her eyes away from the object of their study, but finally managed to let the magazine she'd been ignoring for the last hour-and-a-half slip from her fingers down to the floor.

"I thought it was a mistake to put those two together." Joints popped as he stood from his seat at the foot of the bed. He stretched and cast a glance at his sandwich. It didn't look anymore interesting than it had after he'd made it, it certainly had none of the exciting allure of his telephone. Maybe if he added some kind of garnish, or the possibility of a missing Watcher or thief speaking through it.

Greta murmured again, taking his thoughts away from clairaudient sandwiches and earning herself a medal for services to his sanity. "Why didn't you say so?"

"Because it's much more satisfying to say 'I told you so' after the fact."

"Huh." Disapproval. Like he hadn't heard that before. "Why haven't you gone to help Duncan?"

He crossed his arms over the back of her chair and smiled unrepentantly when she twisted to look at him. "Jail time will be good for him, it'll teach him to straighten up and fly right. He's a good boy really; he just fell in with bad company."

The corner of her mouth twitched as it fought a grin she clearly didn't think he warranted. "He's gonna be so mad at you."

"I'll send him a sword baked into a cake, shall I?"

"You could get him out if you wanted to."

"You overestimate me. Anyway, it's probably the safest place for him to be right now."

Her eyes narrowed as she tried a different tack. "Who's Stefano?"

For the moment he decided to play along, they both knew he'd go and spring MacLeod eventually. He was just hoping to have a better greeting than 'So, were you fond of Joe and Amanda?' when he got there. They'd phone any minute now. Any minute. "Are you trying to make me leave or something?"

"Yes. We need Duncan, unless you want to find them on your own?"

That wasn't an overly appealing option, not least because he knew precisely where the van they were following had come from. Vatican plates were never a good sign when coupled with automatic weaponry. "Can't you just wriggle your nose and know where they are?"

She rolled her eyes and turned back around, under the siren song of the phone once more. "I tried. Well, not the nose wriggling. I didn't get anything useful. There's darkness and swords. A little like before Tessa died"

That wasn't the best news ever. He stood straight again and went to fetch his coat, admitting defeat. "You could have mentioned this earlier. Are you sure this isn't a ploy to make me rescue MacLeod?"

"Just go."

A sudden generosity seized him as he saw his wilting lunch again out of the corner of his eye. "You can have my sandwich, if you want."

"Euw, pickle. No thanks."

"My one entirely selfless gesture this century and you turn it down."

"You'll have others." Her voice was drifting away again, signalling an end to her participation in the reality he mostly called home.

Muttering, he slipped out.

The mental discord of another Immortal strummed his nerves as he hit the second flight of stairs and he slowed his descent, treading more lightly and sliding his hand towards his sword hilt. No voices so it was unlikely to be Joe and Amanda, unless the Watcher had snapped under the pressure of Amanda's chatter and duct-taped her mouth shut.

Now he could hear the more careless, faster tread of whoever it was on the floor below. From the heaviness and speed he judged they were jogging up. Leather creaked against leather thickly, probably a jacket. Of the Immortals likely to drop by that narrowed the field to Stefan or Richie, and Stefan simply wasn't that incautious.

He stopped on the turn of the stairs and positioned his sword edge up at roughly neck height, then studied his nails until an impact thudded against the flat of the blade, accompanied by a short yelp of surprise.

Richie's hand shoved the Ivanhoe aside as he came around the corner, stopping on the top step with a scowl that was more embarrassed than angry. "Not funny."

"I laughed." The sword slipped back into its sheath and his hands back into his pockets.

"Laugh on the way to the police station."

"Ha. Ha." He tried experimentally and then shook his head with mocking sadness. "No, sorry, the moment's gone."

"Let's go." A gloved hand came up to tug on his arm and he shook it off. What was it with people man-handling him lately? This was not to be encouraged and, perversely, he stayed where he was.

"Aren't you going to ask about Joe and Amanda?"

Richie moved closer, looking as if he couldn't decide between begging or beating. "I have one job right now. It's to get you out that door. Tell me on the way."

When the hand came up to his arm again he allowed it tug him to the first stair, then resisted just enough to pull Richie up short and nearly send them both over. "I think I left the gas on …"

All attempts at politeness left as Richie snapped in the face of admittedly quite obnoxious behaviour. "That's it. I'll push you downstairs if I have to."

He gave ground on another step before stopping to tie a lace that was already as secure as it needed to be. "Then you'd have to wait for me to revive."

"Mac's an understanding guy." This time there was just the barest hint of the bland menace of MacLeod. Apt student.

He straightened and began to descend the stairs, leaving Richie in his wake momentarily. "What exactly is it you think I can do?"

Leather creaked in a complicated fashion as Richie shrugged and caught up to walk beside him along the hall to the door. "He said to get you, I'm getting you … why isn't Amanda here? No, forget I asked, just keep walking."

"Sin. Sin. Sin, dex, sini. I'm walking. Look, I'm even opening a door - and now I'm stepping through it."

He wished he wasn't, the weather hadn't improved. The buildings were anonymous grey shapes through the rain and, although the walk to the metro was short, he was going to look like he'd had another dip in the Seine. Belatedly he remembered he owned an umbrella, but Richie would probably deliver on his promise of violence if he went back to get it and then he'd be soaked _and_ he'd have to explain to MacLeod why his student had had to be thrown under a bus.

An answering snort as Richie pulled the hood of the sweater under his jacket up. "Yeah, thanks for the play-by-play. Why didn't you come over when I phoned?"

"I was making a sandwich, that's not something you want to rush."

What he'd come to realise was natural good-humour reasserted itself in Richie, as he'd hoped it would. The undercurrent of strained worry was covered by a light tone. "So Mac rates below lunch?"

He delayed his reply for long enough to give the appearance of serious consideration and then nodded gravely. "Unless it's served with Turkish coffee."

"Eugh, that stuff's gross."

"A blight amongst coffees." It was a little odd to form a bond over a shared dislike of a drink, but camaraderie was found in stranger places. He didn't want to get attached; he wanted the boy to get attached to him. Just enough that, in the unlikely event of a Challenge between them, there would be that second of hesitation.

He'd be disgusted with himself if it wasn't a tactic he'd found had a hundred percent success rate.

"So Mac rates below lunch but above a cup of piping hot death?"

"Sounds about right."

"So why are you helping out at all? I mean, he said you were going to hop a plane, why stick around?"

Was Clan MacLeod reading from some kind of question list designed to drive him insane? "The tragic onset of dementia."

"Sure." Richie showed no more belief than MacLeod had, maybe they were reading each other's answer sheets too. "Nice sword, by the way. From the close-up view, I mean. Looks kinda heavy though. That thing even got any balance?"

"It's balanced enough for how I fight and they're meant to be heavy. If you can't find a place to make a cut, you can just club them over the head until they stop moving."

"Why bother? Something like a katana can cut through anything. I've seen Mac's take out a chunk of cement."

He'd had to defend his choice of sword a great many times over the years since he'd acquired it, the response was almost rote by now, just an 'insert name here' for whatever the proponent of another sword was advocating.

"And when a katana gets blunt, which it does if you even _think_ about using it, it's only good at looking decorative and pricey. Anyway, swords haven't always been able to hold their edge; my teacher taught me how to take a head with something that made your average brick look like a razor. After that, anything's easy."

"Even bad steel stays sharp long enough for a Challenge."

"But bronze doesn't. If you can fight with a bronze sword you can fight with anything. An Ivanhoe is a dream in comparison." The standard second salvo and he'd given the usual answer without thinking, too preoccupied with worry over Joe.

Amanda was over a thousand years old; she could take care of herself. Whether she could take care of herself and Joe was another matter. The Watcher was tough, but this wasn't a mortal's game.

He waited for what was now an inevitable question. An opening he hadn't wanted to give but he was confident he could slant his answers convincingly.

"You were taught with a bronze sword? How old are you?"

That was easy; he avoided the question with another truth. "My teacher was a little archaic."

"What was his name?"

It was simple curiosity and he tried not to respond as if it was the Spanish Inquisition. This was his own fault really; he should have gone with the bus option. "Bob."

"His name wasn't Bob." Quiet laughter and he laughed even more quietly with it.

"Yes it was." Well, Robert, and he had been his teacher. Not his first, or last, teacher, but a teacher none the less.

"There are guys from the Bronze Age called Bob?"

He didn't bother to correct the assumption that Robert was that old, letting Richie come up with an explanation was even easier than truth by omission. "Well, probably not anymore. Anyway, he was calling himself Bob when he taught me."

"That's just wrong, man."

"Well, if you're from the Bronze Age you probably can't keep your own name, can you? 'Fualdergoidii Smith' would be a bit of a giveaway to any of us wielding a phone book."

_Golden rings on his fingers and a wolf's last howl. _

_Fualdergoid, smiling over the carcass, covered in its blood and its steaming heart in his hands._

"_For the kill of it, the strength of it. I'll rule them as a wolf and a man."_

_Fualdergoid, with crimson streaks over his mouth and chin, cinereous hair and charnel eyes, leaning closer in the shadows of flames when the darkness came._

_Golden rings on his fingers and a wolf in his heart._

Beautiful, ambitious, Fualdergoid who hadn't kept his head long enough to have to worry about the Iron Age, let alone phone books.

The sound of the rain drumming on the slick steps behind them was swamped by the chaos of commuters as they descended to the station. If Dante were alive now, this may very well have been his description of a circle of hell. Richie raised his voice over the chaos "Maybe I should start thinking about a new name."

Adam yelled back as he wove to the side to avoid being impaled by an old woman wielding an umbrella with an unholy gleam in her eye. The ticket barrier was the least well known death trap in Paris. "You probably don't have to worry about it."

"Gee, thanks." Richie grunted as his knees were nearly taken out by a maddened pushchair and then cursed as he managed to stop the doors on the train closing by dint of shoving his hand through the small gap.

"I only meant that Richard is a fairly enduring name." Between them they worked the doors open and fell inside, ignoring the glares from the other passengers whose journeys had been delayed by precious seconds.

In the cramped confines they didn't even bother trying to find seats, just carved a small standing space for themselves with judicious use of elbows, ending up packed against each other. At least Ryan had used mouthwash that morning.

"Yeah, right. Can you move left?"

"I did mean that! I'll breathe in while you breathe out, we might make it to the next stop alive."

"Sure you did … what's that smell?"

The police station wasn't much of an improvement over the Metro. They stood outside for almost five minutes watching the main doors swing unceasingly back and forth under the tide of humanity before Richie finally snapped and dove into the milling confusion. A few curses and a mild concussion later he made enough room to get them both inside.

Fighting their way to the reception was more of the same; though this time they had to be slightly more judicious with the application of brute force. The last thing they needed was to be hauled up on assault for clocking an officer. Richie finally set a hand on the desk and gripped tightly with a faintly shell shocked expression. "It wasn't like this when I left."

Adam shook his head with the same disbelief and tried to avoid being swept into a wall. "Maybe half of Paris decided to turn a life of crime."

Richie's laugh had a slightly nervous pitch to it. "And were really, really bad at it?"

"A state of emergency has been declared in the Latin Quarter, M'sieur Pierson. I would prefer petty theft, personally. Or insurance fraud. Defacement of public works, perhaps."

The smooth voice was close enough not to be raised and Adam turned as sharply as he could to face the man who had somehow materialised at his elbow. LeBrun was a tall and unflappable presence, apparently completely unfazed by the chaos around him. His only expression was a thin smile that was neither amused nor warm, only slightly knowing.

"Inspector." He nodded and attempted to regain some of his own composure. "What's happened?"

"I am not at liberty to say. Please, this way." LeBrun led them in a circuit around the room towards the relative peace of the back offices. The frantic rushing around was replaced by a shrill chorus of ringing telephones and a backdrop of voices trying to deal with the lucky minority who had managed to connect.

Finally the door of the Inspector's office was closed behind them and Adam took one of the offered seats, unsurprised when Richie remained by the door. "If you're not at liberty to discuss the city, are you at liberty to tell me what charges Mr MacLeod is being detained under?"

LeBrun steepled his fingers under his chin as he leaned forward with his elbows on the desk. "No charges have been filed."

The shock was non-existent but the man was clearly intending to go through the motions despite having no intention of keeping MacLeod. Time to play along, yet again. "Then why are you still holding him?"

Once more the small smile appeared. "We are able to hold him for some time to aid in our investigation."

"In other words, you have no charges to file."

One hand separated from the steeple, a finger tapped at a thick folder whose edges were rumpled with use. "There is a small matter of criminal damage and a number of questions in regards to the Nobile."

Adam watched the man's fingernail, bitten to the quick, tap the mug-shot of MacLeod clipped onto the front of the file. It hit the photograph unerringly between the eyes every time. A sliver of sympathy arose for the policeman and he mentally welcomed him to the 'Victims Of Duncan MacLeod' support group.

Still, he was careful to let none of the amusement show in the severe, almost priggish, tone he had borrowed from any number of University Review Board members. "Do you always arrest the victims of crimes, Inspector? I imagine that must make your solved rate impressive."

LeBrun refused to rise to the bait; his smile widened a fraction to briefly show a line of white teeth. "My solved rate is exemplary, M'sieur. I always find the truth, sooner or later."

"As much as I'd enjoy a philosophical discourse on the nature of truth, the fact is you have no evidence and no just cause, which makes this harassment of an innocent man. Assuming people are still innocent until proven guilty in a court of law in your judiciary system, of course."

The tapping stopped as the man leant back in his chair, the creak of the wood long and old. "What happened at the barge, M'sieur Pierson?"

"Are you asking for a formal statement?"

"Not as yet. We are having a friendly little chat; it would be a shame to spoil it with recording equipment."

Caution was trying to close his throat, but he couldn't allow LeBrun the slightest suggestion of hesitation. The man would be on it like a shark to blood or MacLeod to situations designed to inconvenience the world's oldest Immortal. "I don't know what happened, I wasn't there."

The Inspector nodded, as if suddenly recalling. Like hell. "Ah, yes, you were with MacLeod at ..?"

He almost filled in the missing word, mouth framing the word before he caught himself. Not 'barge', granted, but 'bar' would have been equally dangerous given he wasn't meant to be aware of the timescale involved. It was a tactic older than sin, but knowing that didn't beat reflex. So he ducked his head slightly as he replied, acknowledging the near hit. "Not knowing when the barge was destroyed, I have no idea where I was. Could you be more specific?"

"Just after midnight." A mild tone, no pretence at looking the information up in the file. Oh, he could like this man. Good guys might be easier to predict, but bad guys doing good things were so much more fun.

"Then we were at my apartment, I believe. A small Gathering between friends."

To his credit, Richie managed to turn the choke into a cough.

LeBrun shot a glance over to the other man, the working cogs of his mind almost visible, then he returned his level gaze to Adam's once more. "I see. And how did you find out about the event?"

"From someone who went to visit MacLeod and saw what had happened, she came directly over."

"So you learned of it that night but didn't contact us?"

"The man was in shock."

LeBrun shook his head slightly with a faintly disgusted grimace. "Neatly tied up."

"I don't follow you." He affected his most irritatingly wide eyed expression but LeBrun remained unmoved.

"Of course you don't." The Inspector stood and gestured to the door. "MacLeod is being processed out. I will be watching."

"It's comforting to know the police are so concerned for our welfare." He unfolded himself from the uncomfortable chair and followed Richie out into the din of the corridor.

The younger man was almost bouncing on his feet as they forged their way through the corridors. "See, I knew you could get him out."

"I didn't. You heard him – MacLeod's already out. He was just using him as bait for a fishing expedition. What did MacLeod do to the poor man?"

"Don't ask me. Hey, what were you saying about Joe and Amanda?"

Leaning against the wall across the way from the processing area, he spoke quietly as he watched MacLeod. "They've gone missing."

"_What_? Why didn't you tell me?!"

Adam held a hand over his ear and looked at the other man reproachfully. When the ringing stopped, he replied. "You told me not to. I've got a pretty good idea where they are."

"Where who are?" Naturally, the Highlander had to choose that moment to appear. He clutched his coat in his hands and his brows were drawn down in annoyance. "Let's get out of here."

"Mac!" Richie relief was obvious, for a moment, Methos tried to remember what it felt like to trust someone so much their presence alone was enough to improve a situation. No memory came obediently to the fore; apparently he'd always been smarter than Richie Ryan. What a comfort.

"Don't get too close, Richie. He's a hardened criminal, who knows how he'll act."

With a blandly sardonic frown, MacLeod cut in again. "What took you so long to get here?"

He delayed answering, having decided that this was not the moment to tell MacLeod about his Watcher and occasional girlfriend's MIA status. "This is my thanks for getting you out?"

Richie glanced at him once, then smiled slightly and followed his lead as they narrowly avoided decapitation by umbrella. "You didn't get him out."

Okay, so sudden moments of insight ran in the family, such as it was. He wasn't going to be impressed just because a twenty year old had shown signs of native intelligence. Instead he wheezed out a reply as he caught a shopping bag in the stomach. "Thank you, Rozencrantz."

MacLeod nearly got a word in edgeways before Richie spoke fast as he stumbled down the last two steps onto the street. "Who?"

They were finally spat out onto the sidewalk by the heaving crowd some twenty feet away from the station. It was even more hectic than when they'd arrived. He watched the policemen trying to bring order to what was rapidly turning into a dangerous mob. "You'd prefer Judas?"

A few more feet and a sharp left and now they were more or less secluded in one of the hundreds of side alleys that smelled of damp dust and rotting waste. Richie ran a hand through his hair distractedly and eyed the crowd with something approaching distrust as he gave MacLeod back his katana with as much subtlety as possible when three feet of sharp blade is in the equation. "I think I'd prefer to get out of here." He paused and finally looked at his teacher. "Mac, Joe and Amanda are missing."

"Missing." MacLeod's tone was flat and even and Methos began to wish they'd told him while there were still witnesses around. "How long?"

"A few hours. But Adam knows where they are." Richie nodded his way and he felt compelled to defend himself from MacLeod's entirely too interested look.

"No, I said I have an _idea_ where they are."

A nod and MacLeod's gaze wandered back to the small riot that was rapidly becoming more than the police were able to contain. "What about Doyle?"

"Not a problem for the moment."

"What was in the river?"

"Doyle."

That jerked the Highlander from his grim-faced reverie. "This isn't a problem?"

"It's difficult to explain."

"Simplify it."

"Running water. It's a superstition. Drop a witch in to see if she'll float, vampires can't cross it and Doyle gets thrown in it every time he's caught. They stab him in the heart, wrap him up and fling him in the closest body of running water available. Here they put him under _Pont Neuf,_ it was the only bridge near to Notre Dame for a long time."

"_Who_ are doing this?"

MacLeod spoke the question, but only to make him answer it and after a moment he obliged through gritted teeth. "The Xerxesi."

"And why didn't you tell us earlier?" He'd expected irritation, maybe even anger, but MacLeod just sounded resigned, even disappointed. That wasn't fighting fair but he let the defence come anyway.

"I wasn't sure earlier. Look, things change over half a millennia. Even if it is them, there's no way to know whether they're still operating in the same way. I barely knew the procedure in the first place, but they always had church backing and the plates on the van Amanda and Joe were following were Vatican staff, not just state."

This was processed in silence as they stood in the drizzle and he slowly felt the cold seep down to the bone. Somehow he'd always been under the impression that heroes weren't meant to look like drowned rats.

Richie's frown slowly deepened until he finally asked the question that was clearly nagging at him. "I'm not going to ask why they're doing that not just, you know, locking the guy up someplace … but why do they have to _keep_ doing it? How does he keep getting out of it? Knife in the heart, the guy should just stay dead, right?"

"I have no idea." And Adam could quite honestly say he didn't, it made no sense. Possibly Michael had someone helping him but even then, surely, the Xerxesi were sensible enough to maintain some kind of observation.

Finally MacLeod spoke, each word measured and determined. "I think it's time to take confession."

Richie tilted his head a touch, giving up on trying to keep the rain from making its way under his collar. "Make."

"I was right the first time. What's happening over there?"

At MacLeod's nod to the pushing, shouting crowd, they looked that way and saw even LeBrun had joined the forces trying to keep the peace and placate the citizens. "There's something going on in the Latin Quarter, LeBrun wouldn't say what."

"Okay, where do you think Joe and Amanda are?"

He raised an eyebrow and looked back to MacLeod. "Do you really have to ask?"

"Latin Quarter." All three spoke in rueful unison and stepped out onto the rain-made mirrors of the street.

i "Sin, sin, sin dex sin" – Roman marching chant (sinister/dexter left/right)

ii Milesian king, 1327-1317BC, Ireland. First to order his nobility to wear gold rings on their fingers.


	7. Part 7

"_Amanda?"_

"_Yes, Joseph?"_

"_I just want you to know that I'm not planning to say 'I told you so'"_

"_That's very gentlemanly of you."_

"_Thank you. So, I'd like to ask a favour."_

"_Of course. Within reason."_

"_Get your foot out of my eye."_

"_That's your eye?"_

"_What did you **think** it was?"_

"_Well I don't know - I can hardly feel anything."_

"_Me either, but you know what?"_

"_What?"_

"_I can still feel your foot in my eye."_

"_I'm trying to move, just hush a moment."_

"_Ow! You're meant to move away."_

"_I don't have any leverage. Where did they put us?"_

"_How should I know?"_

"_Can you see a door?"_

"_It's just as dark down here for me as you. And, also, you have your **foot** in my **eye**."_

"_Just be grateful I'm not wearing the stilettos anymore. There, is that better?"_

"_Yeah. Yeah, that's better. Amanda?"_

"_Yes, Joseph?"_

"_I told you so."_

The voices lost their clarity, bickering blended with the clamour of traffic outside and then faded completely as she awoke. The textured darkness of the vision gave way to the blurred, too-bright shapes and shadows of the apartment. Greta turned, feeling the bed dip slightly to support her as she stared up at the ceiling and waited for reality to reassert itself.

New voices and the smell of rain and dirt but no images in her mind to accompany them, just the white tiles above. One tile had a little crack. She felt a momentary kinship, and then decided madness was identifying with the décor.

The voices became clearer as she let them take her attention, became distinct enough that, for a moment, she was tempted to turn her head to reassure herself that Richie, Adam and Duncan weren't standing next to the bed. She remembered when reassurance had meant just the opposite.

"_Are we going to bring Greta in on this?" _Adam, tone so neutral it was barely a question at all. She could practically see the distance between the man and the words, the man and the intent. The man and the consequences. Asking the question so he wouldn't have to be the one to answer it.

"_She'll be able to help us." _Duncan now, an affirmative in a reason without suggesting it was his preference. Distance again but better hidden, even from himself. He probably didn't realise how far removed he was becoming, how much he was going through the motions.

Grief, she realised after a moment. He wasn't tired, or jaded, but he mourned and in mourning fell back on habit. And habit for any Immortal, she was learning, meant hiding intent even from friends. Maybe it would pass.

"_No. It's not fair; she's not like us …" _Richie, a flood of warmth over the barren ground the other two men left - vibrant, passionate. Unthinking surety in place of experience.

She felt Methos, impossibly, cut himself away even further. Completely silent and tuning out as the other two kept talking.

"_Neither's Joe." _A reasonable tone from MacLeod that still didn't quite hide the depth of his worry from her and, she suspected, from anyone listening to him. He would rather Joe be safe than herself and she didn't begrudge him that. Well, she didn't while her mind was half taken with his. Later, she decided, she'd be upset. Possibly even curt. She'd glare at the very least.

"_Joe knows the risks." _Obstinate sweetness, already Richie was forgetting what he was fighting for and just concentrating on standing his ground. She couldn't begrudge him either. Everyone fought the way they knew best.

"_So does she." _

"_No way."_

"_It's up to her."_

"_No, it's not going to happen. We'll walk before I'll put her in danger again."_

"_Richie …"_

"_No, Mac."_

In the silence was everything unsaid: the frustration, anger, guilt, fear, even jealousy. No, she didn't begrudge them a thing. Methos was a balm now, not the barren land she'd likened him to at first. No stinging emotion, just a cool wash of impersonal logic. That she begrudged. Just a little.

"_We have to go back to my apartment anyway, they may have called in. She'll know what's happened …"_

"_Not if we don't tell her."_

"_Richie, she's a seer, remember? We're probably only marginally more interesting than dubbed American soap-operas, but I imagine she's been tuned in. Anyway, it's her choice."_

Her choice. Her … choice.

She blinked and forced the rest of their conversion away, it was enough to know they were on their way back. Just a turn of her head and she felt herself falling, a sudden vertigo that made her draw a sharp breath as much from surprise as the fear she would miss. Miss _what_, she didn't want to ask.

Then it was over and she was rolling off the bed and to her feet. The sandwich Adam had left was actively trying to outstare her; she approached with caution and corralled it towards the garbage.

The clock ticked, she counted with it and reached a hundred and five before she noticed and stopped. This was not how she'd imagined a romantic holiday in Paris was meant to go.

She heard the knock before it came and was standing at the open door when three drenched Immortals came up the hall. Richie's gaze fell everywhere but on her, she smiled slightly and pulled him to the side as the other two went on.

He wouldn't meet her eyes even now and she gently reached up to his cheek, exerting just enough pressure with her palm to force him to look at her. "Richie, it's okay."

"You heard?" His shoulders dropped and he shot a glance at the door as if wondering whether it was too late to just take her and leave everyone else to it. In fact she'd bet that was his thought exactly, no freaky mind meld required.

With as much determination she could muster she answered him, never breaking the eye contact. It was just the two of them here and now. "Yeah, I heard most of it. I want to help."

"I don't want you to." His voice was quiet and pleading, looking at her through his eyelashes, a boyish charm he'd be able to pull off for eternity. As long as his eternity happened to be.

She hadn't fallen for that since their second date. "I know."

"Greta …"

"I know. Richie, it'll be okay."

"You seen that?"

There was just the hint of a smile and she responded with one of her own, teasing attitude in its curve. "Yeah, I _seen_ it."

"You lying to me?"

"Yeah."

His laugh was quiet, but unforced and she relaxed, letting him pull her into a hug. She sprang back almost immediately.

"Euw, take a shower."

"It's just rain."

"On that jacket? Shower. Now."

"Yes'm"

While Richie detoured to the bathroom, she followed after Adam and MacLeod. They were talking quietly in the kitchen and she paused before going any further, not wanting to interrupt or eavesdrop. Then the emotional imprints that came from them anyway reminded her there really wasn't much she could do about the latter. She felt the frustration underpinned by worry that both men refused to allow to become true fear. She wondered if they knew how to be scared anymore.

Both voices silenced and then she heard MacLeod. "Greta?"

"Hi." She looked around the frame of the door, hesitating just a moment and then allowing the rest of herself to follow. "Richie told me…"

Adam, sipping from a mug of the coffee she'd prepared for their arrival, smiled thinly and finished her sentence. "… very little you didn't know?"

MacLeod shot him a warning look and she ignored both in favour of delivering her message.

"Well, yeah. But here's something you didn't know. Joe and Amanda are still alive."

She paused to let that sink in, saw the relief in their expressions. Then she continued, feeling herself beginning to frown with the effort of recall. This would explain those crater-like wrinkles the old prophets in movies always had; she made an effort to smooth her face again. Mad was one thing, mad and pug was another.

"They're tied up somewhere dark, damp, but they haven't been hurt. I think it might be kinda tight. Amanda's pretty much lying on Joe. There's foot - eye issues, and Joe's on the wet patch."

There was a pause as both men attempted to process this and she smiled slightly. They may or may not have known how to be scared but definitely, judging by their bemusement and then sudden wincing, didn't know when to avoid a visualisation.

MacLeod recovered first and refocused with a nod. "Okay, thank you, that helps but somewhere dark, cramped and damp covers a lot of places. Is there any way at all to narrow it down?"

Her lips pursed of their own accord and she let them as the lesser evil of wrinklage. "There's steps, maybe it's a cellar or something, but really small. It was really cold."

Even as she spoke she knew how it sounded, all Adam did was give voice to what all three were thinking. "A really cold, small cellar in the Latin Quarter. Well then, it should only take thirty or forty years to find them."

Now she was forgotten as Mac turned to look at the resident cynic, shaking his head, grasping at the straws they'd been offered. "Not necessarily a cellar. If it's such a confined space, it could it be some kind of priest hole."

And he was shot down again by the same slightly biting tone Adam had been using since they'd returned. Maybe it wasn't Adam, then. Adam, she was sure, was kinder than this. He had to have been. Methos, she knew with the same certainty, really wasn't. "Oh well, that's much better then… no, wait, how does this help? We're in Paris. _Paris_. Do you know what Paris is built on, MacLeod? It's built on _Paris_. You could spend a lifetime looking below the city, _you_ could spent several lifetimes, and not come anywhere near them. Worse, you could come within five feet of them and never know it. They could even be under this building."

They all looked down instinctively and, on looking up, MacLeod's expression was thoughtful enough she wondered whether he'd be asking for the digging equipment.

Then he just nodded shortly and looked back to her. It was still just a little disconcerting to have every part of his attention on her, even after experiencing how single minded he could be during his search for Tessa.

"If you went near the place do you think you could … see them?"

Now Adam, Methos, was watching her intently as well. He seemed as interested in her answer as MacLeod but there wasn't hope in him. It was almost as if he wanted a 'no' from her but, unsure of his reasons and even her interpretation, she went with honesty. "Maybe. I can try."

Methos was a closed - translated into Swahili, wrapped and buried - book again, but MacLeod smiled and then became hesitant as he appeared to have a sudden attack of conscience. "You don't have to, Greta; none of this is anything to do with you."

Remembering his priorities between herself and Joe, she discovered the annoyance she'd hoped for wasn't nearly as much as she'd expected, but it was the principle of it now. Perversely, she decided pettiness was her price and waited until he began to look worried before answering. "It's in my head, it's not leaving. I think that makes it something to do with me. You need my help; Richie will be okay with it."

"You … heard us?"

"I heard you three, Amanda, Joe and something about which route to take getting the Premier out of the city. Unless that was the radio …"

Methos laughed with a wicked delight she felt herself begin to grin in response to, just as she had before he left to bail out MacLeod. "You're turning into a national threat. Of course, as this isn't my nation, I have no real problem with that."

Sternly she made herself remain impassive; she'd seen what happened when people engaged with him. Three hour long bickering sessions that you could never, ever win and he never, ever let you forget it.

"What_ is_ your nation?" So MacLeod still had delusions of victory.

"Egypt." Methos turned wide-eyed to the rapidly blinking man beside him.

"Egypt." Flat disbelief from the Highlander was her cue to leave, they were squared off now.

"What?" As single word salvos went, she had to admit it was reasonably well used – all innocent curiosity and veiled suggestion.

Definitely time to go. She quietly backed out of the kitchen and returned to sitting by the phone, still able to hear their conversation but no longer at risk of being conscripted to either side. The shower made a hissing backdrop that was almost soothing; at least Richie was taking her order seriously.

"Egypt. I know for a fact the Watchers have been trying to ... everyone kept wondering and … Egypt. Just like that."

"Well, not really. I mean, it wasn't Egypt then. It's just easier to say. It's not my fault no one actually decided to ask me."

"You can't be Egyptian."

"All right, if you say so."

"You don't look …"

With a slight smile she hunched down further into the chair, then sneezed and reached for the box of tissues on the side of the table. She couldn't really grumble, a cold was better than pneumonia and that could have been on the cards after the bridge diving incident.

Yeah, on the whole, she was doing okay.

She closed her eyes and the frozen image of the man she had stabbed, probably killed, under the bridge presented itself for her attention. She opened her eyes again.

Oh yeah, she was fine.


	8. Part 8

Why here? It wasn't fair, it really wasn't. The concept of fair, admittedly, was one he'd been mocking for most of his existence, but still it rankled. Darius could have hidden his trinket anywhere and he chose to hide it _here_.

He tried to keep his mind away from the past, concentrating on anything else in an effort to ensure he didn't raise a flag for Greta to notice. She had been barely with them as they'd left the apartment, running commentary on the hidden world around her with no indication she was aware she was doing so. No, he didn't want her to take an interest in him, not here.

Muted voices came from below as Richie and MacLeod attacked the sealed entrance to what, he knew full well, was once a basement to an inn. An inn that had once sat conveniently against the city wall and one the church soldiers had tended not to frequent.

Standing watch over the open manhole cover, Methos listened to the industry below and huffed warm breath over cold hands.

"I don't know, Mac, this doesn't look so solid." A tapping sound and a low rumble followed. After a second, a haze of upwardly mobile dust was expelled from the manhole and made an escape bid to the darkness above, abetted by the frigid breeze. It glittered where the streetlight caught it which, as far as he knew, wasn't a usual characteristic of dried mud. With a frown he watched it dance for a moment longer, but finally pushed it from his thoughts when no answer to what it could be came to mind.

The sharp smell of winter was still lingering and, under it, the old decay. Pollution and modern life couldn't mask the true scent of Paris; they were just an aging courtesan's perfumes. The lights were her jewellery and cosmetics, once expensive and now cheap, disguising the fading beauty and worn edges. The bustle and the noise, too, could be stripped back to hear her promises through the years; promises she broke or kept on a whim, whispers forever trapped by the narrow streets.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Greta turn to look at him, but he did nothing to rein in the darkly vicious turn his thoughts had taken. A metaphor was working for him, for once, and by the time he realised the road it would inevitably turn into it was already too late.

"_Do you vouch this place safe?"_

_  
"I vouch no place safe, but find this safer than others."_

"_Will you give them no comfort, even now?"_

"_Their comfort is their God and the warming flame of martyrdom - without and within. What secular assurance could compare?"_

"_Why must you mock them?"_

"_I must mock us all."_

"_Mattio, I…"_

"_Adamo."_

"_Adamo, then. I …"_

"_I did, for a while, consider 'Darius' but discovered it to be already claimed."_

"_And thus chose Adamo, having no great wish to return to 'Methos'?"_

"_A hit, Priest."_

"_If you do not care for these people, why do you aid my efforts to save them?"_

"_I grow bored of this place and I find it as well to leave it having won."_

"_Their safety is a game?"_

"_Everything is a game."_

"_And your prize?"_

"_To play."_

"_You play only to play?"_

"_In all things."_

"_Then, my friend, you are the wisest fool I have yet to meet."_

"_You are young, yet."_

"_And would you suffer the youth to ask a favour of you."_

"_Asking costs nothing."_

"_We shall see. I know to whom you go. Do not take his head."_

"_He will be within the walls before the night ends, and then your flock will die."_

"_Delay him; buy time and seclusion for my brothers to contain him, aid their efforts. I ask that you trust me in this, do not allow his head to be taken. Never allow his head to be taken."_

"_I make no promise."_

"_Your oath, Methos, or what I returned to you can be taken as easily. Would you again become the Horseman?"_

"_Your God is merciful and forgiving, Priest, or did you forget?"_

"_His unworthy servant has much to repent for, He will understand a lapse. Your oath, Warlord."_

"_My oath is given and bound."_

"_Be safe, Adamo."_

"_Be damned, Xerxes."_

"That cop car's gone by twice." Greta's voice was softly conversational and he didn't turn to look as he replied, only grateful she didn't appear to have picked up on his small sojourn into the past and seemed once more coherent to boot.

"LeBrun did say he'd be watching, although I imagine he can't believe we'd hit the scene of the crime twice in a day."

"We're either criminal geniuses or complete idiots."

"I suspect the only thing keeping us out of handcuffs is LeBrun's inability to decide which."

There was a crumbling sound from below that rapidly became louder. He edged away from the manhole cover but made no attempt to check the men below hadn't been buried alive. Greta looked unconcerned; he took this to mean no one was actually dead.

After a moment they could hear coughing which became louder as MacLeod and Richie hauled themselves up from the depths of the tunnels. They were streaked with yellow mud and other things he preferred not to identify, but there was an unmistakable air of victory.

Wrapping his arms around himself, knowing it would do nothing against this cold, he aimed for amused and settled for sardonic. "You managed to defeat the inanimate object?"

"We're through." MacLeod gave a short nod and he drank from the water bottle Greta handed him.

Adam forced some nonchalance back into his tone, trying to lighten up before he created his very own self-fulfilling prophecy. The inconvenience of whatever happened with those always fell second to the annoyance of having no one else to blame. "Bards will sing songs of your heroics. What's in there?"

"We didn't look yet." Richie coughed and took the water, trying to unclog his throat.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realise we came all this way to knock a hole in a wall and then go away again. Fun!"

From the expressions of the other three, he suspected he may have overdone the cheer a touch and headed right into sarcasm from the other direction.

"What's eating you? Mac just figured we'd let the dust settle down a little first."

"_Eminence, I tell you truly: the heretics will flee tonight. Command your men to watch well the eastern wall."_

"_The church thanks you for your good and faithful service."_

Greta was watching him steadily now and he knew just what she was seeing, the tightening of her expression as her vacant eyes stared at old gambits they couldn't comprehend. _Witchery_. For a moment, with instincts that just barely formed a conscious thought, he wanted her blood on his hands. It was enough. She blanched and then her eyes narrowed. With slow deliberation, she began to speak.

"He's been here before; he was the one who found the way for Darius to take his people out of the city."

Richie squinted as he tried to read her expression. "Isn't that … good?"

"He betrayed them. The Church soldiers were waiting; they were slaughtered outside the walls. Men. Women. Children." Greta coughed hoarsely and looked away.

MacLeod looked from one to the other, clearly trying to work around this information. Finally he spoke. "You're wrong. He wouldn't do that."

"Adam wouldn't." Her voice was inflectionless, the meaning lost on Richie but scoring a direct hit on MacLeod.

A flinch but the man shook his head. "Then there was a good reason."

The surety in his character was touching, if misplaced, and he began to force distance between himself and the attachment he'd allowed to grow to the Highlander. He could cut it away with no regret. He could. He would. And he would do it now, before the knife was given a keener edge.

The nonchalance was easier this time as he shrugged. "Call it spite, if you want. An oath was exacted from me, but no terms were given on how I was supposed to fulfil it."

Now MacLeod looked sick, and there was no exploding barge to allow him to ignore the revelation. "How many?"

"Three families. I believe there was also a small dog."

"Three … You_ betrayed_ Darius." There was very nearly awe in the man's voice, as if he could no more conceive of someone doing this than walking on water.

It amused only because he couldn't let it sadden and ruthlessly he let that amusement show with a quiet laugh. "While serving him faithfully to the letter, which is harder than you'd think. But, then, I've had the practice."

Blankly, MacLeod looked to Greta. "Is he even sorry?"

"No, but he had …"

He cut across her before she could effect a salvage operation on his reputation, the fact she'd tried at all stinging at pride he thought he'd managed to eradicate a long time ago. "…that's quite enough, thank you Greta. Your thirty pieces of silver are in the mail." His explanations and his reasons were his own and they would stay that way, thank-you-so-very-much, apologists be damned.

She fell back to stand beside the still silent Richie; he discounted both and turned his attention back to the Highlander, speaking as levelly and impersonally as he knew how.

"Here's your problem, MacLeod. This has wandered into one of a thousand episodes of my past that you would find less than palatable. Normally I would leave town to let you cast your judgements in peace, but I can't do that this time. So I suggest we return to the point and find exactly what it is Darius left for you down there and you can be morally outraged later."

"You betrayed _Darius_."

Clearly they weren't getting away from this quickly and amusement turned to irritation. "Everyone betrays everyone, one way or another, sooner or later. Why should Darius be special?"

"Because he was a good man and those people did not deserve to die." There was the righteous anger he was expecting, it was encouraging in a way. While MacLeod was passing judgements he was still himself.

He smiled and encouraged the rage, all the better to keep the questions at bay. "How do you know? According to the popular view at the time, they not only deserved to die but God himself demanded it."

"That's not your reason." It took a moment to register that Richie had actually spoken, interrupting his careful orchestration.

After a beat, he changed gears and nodded calmly. "Of course not, but a little perspective would not go amiss. How long do you think they would have lasted outside the walls? They were prey for the first wolf's heads who found them."

"Why did you do it?" The younger man's tone was too measured, too thoughtful.

Adam glanced at Greta who shook her head; he took that to mean she'd said nothing to prompt this and so answered almost cautiously, on unfamiliar ground when Ryan decided to actually use his brain. "I told you."

"No, you gave a reason but I don't think it was yours. Spite? I don't buy it. Revenge I can see, but not spite."

Yes, he was definitely getting out of practice. Perhaps he ought to abscond to some third world country and toy with its government for a while to regain mastery of the fine art of not being thwarted by children. There was a distinctively plaintive tone to his question, despite his best efforts. "Why not? I can be spiteful. I'm even petty, when the situation requires."

MacLeod took a breath and spoke with a calm tone that made it clear his work had been undone, the Scot was thinking again. "What was the oath Darius made you swear?"

"Go look in the hole, Highlander."

MacLeod took a step forward. "Tell me."

For once, he didn't step back, just raised his chin and smiled thinly. "Or what?"

The smile he received in return was hard and unforgiving; there was no room for manoeuvre there. Normally it was tempered with humour or concern; he hadn't been the focus of the face MacLeod showed his enemies before. It was enlightening, if not pleasant. "Or I'll ask Greta to tell me."

After a moment he decided upon the lesser evil. Allowing Greta to speak again would be a dangerously unknown quantity. "That I would never take Doyle's head or allow it to be taken if I could prevent it."

"Why?"

"I assume Darius had his reasons."

The force of will bearing down on him didn't lessen, but he matched it head on for once with his own and was given the satisfaction of seeing MacLeod momentarily surprised.

"No, why did you swear it? What's keeping you to it?"

"Would you believe a higher sense of honour?"

MacLeod's smile widened with no suggestion of humour whatsoever but his voice remained low, almost sing-song "Probably not from someone who allowed three families to be slaughtered."

"Don't forget the dog."

Two large hands came forward, bunched into fists at his collar and dragged him in. Almost nose to nose, he could feel the heat of MacLeod's unsteady breathing. He'd expected shouting, but the voice remained just the same as the intent gaze caught and held his own. "What is it?"

With just the same quiet intensity, without looking away, he replied on a breath. "I won't tell you, MacLeod."

The grip was abruptly released and he stepped back again, smoothing out his collar as MacLeod turned and spoke to the seer "Greta?"

She shook her head. "No."

His own disbelief echoed MacLeod's, though he didn't speak. "What?"

Her fingers worried at the hem of her sweater, nervously picking at threads in the spotlight glare that was the Highlander's full and displeased attention. Her voice shook, cracked, but was understood. "I won't tell you either."

MacLeod's jaw clenched as he grit his teeth, he closed his eyes then opened them again, patently trying to sound reasonable but still conveying more of the Scottish chieftain inclined to swing first and ask questions of the corpse's kin. "But you know."

"Yes, but … I can't tell you." Her voice grew in certainty again and she stood away from the arm Richie had protectively thrown around her.

"You saw what he did."

"I've seen things you've _all_ done. He's just had longer to screw up."

"I have never …"

"I saw what happened after Culloden."

MacLeod looked not unlike a man kicked in the gut. The strings of anger and betrayal were cut from their marionette and he slumped, defeated by one word. His answer was token defence, the knowledge of his guilt plainly written in every sickened line of his expression. "That was different."

Greta spoke with clipped, surgical precision, moving in for annihilation. "Yes. You killed with your own hands."

Even Richie looked appalled, though Adam couldn't tell whether that was directed at the boy's girlfriend or teacher. It didn't matter, the spotlight was off himself. He'd been upstaged and was quite happy to relinquish the floor.

"_Michael."_

"_Mattio. Do you come for my head after all?"_

"_I wish only to pass the time."_

"_There is none, the guards will come to arrest me soon. They will take death into their city and my wage will be earned quickly."_

"_The guards are delayed to the east tonight; it's only you and I."_

He watched the police car drive past for the third time, spoke without turning back. "Go and find what your benefactor left you, Highlander. Amanda and Joe are waiting."

-o-

Amanda's voice was more waspish than worried as she spoke. "You realise we're going to have to be rescued?"

She squirmed slightly and Joe twisted his head to avoid a repeat of the stab in the eye he'd received earlier. "I'm trying not to think about it."

Trying not to think about it didn't help the fact it was the case. The ropes had resisted all attempts at working them off and, thoughtlessly, their abductors had left absolutely no convenient sharp edges around for them to utilise. He was a trained field operative with decades of experience, accompanied by a thousand year old professional thief, and they were waiting on MacLeod and Richie to swoop in and save the day. It wasn't just annoying, it was embarrassing and, anyway, he had way too much facial hair to play the damsel in distress.

The silence lasted perhaps two more seconds before the woman lying on him spoke again, her irritation making her snap every word. "This is completely untenable. Do you know how often I need to be rescued when I'm not around MacLeod?"

"Well…"

"Never! I don't get tied up, or thrown down steps, or threatened. Well, almost never."

With some trepidation, he tried to move enough to restore some circulation to his arms. The numbness had set in long ago, as much from the cold as the tightness of the ropes, but it didn't hurt to try. Success, on the other hand, would hurt quite a lot. "It's not exactly my idea of a good time either, Amanda."

"But you've got less pride to lose."

"Thanks." He spoke mildly, knowing she meant nothing by it. Her mouth probably hadn't even consulted her brain before she spoke.

When he had first read her Chronicle, he wondered how someone as apparently flighty and high-strung as Amanda has managed to last so long in the Game. Then he had read again with a more searching eye and seen the core of strength and creative determination, sheer stubbornness and courage, which tempered her recklessness and excesses.

The ruthless vindictive streak hadn't done her any harm either.

So he had no great concern her sniping was an indication of imminent breakdown, only a slight sympathy for the people she would eventually find a way to pay back with interest.

"You know what I mean." Her tone had turned mollifying now and he nearly grinned, then stopped as something creaked above them.

"Did you hear that?"

"Eugh, something's falling, some kind of dust."

Amanda moved again and he tried not to groan. Some of the powder fell on his lip and he tentatively touched his tongue to it. The taste was familiar and, he suspected, safe but he spat to the side just the same. "It's not dust, it's salt."

"You just tried it? You don't even know where it's been."

"'_Thanks_, Joe, for finding out what' … do you hear that?" There was the sound of metal grating again, this time to his left. Something began to make a sound he couldn't immediately identify until he heard the heavy sound of water hitting the side of a tunnel. Then he felt the first bite of icy wetness as it began to spill into their tiny space.

He couldn't suppress a shiver and felt Amanda fall a little to the side. She didn't complain at being unceremoniously introduced to a severe case of rising damp. He had been expecting a shriek, but her tone was only thoughtful. "Is that … water?"

Now, he decided, was the time to get worried. "Whatever it is, it's not stopping and I'm not tasting it."

Conversation ceased as they listened to the slow gurgle of the low-ceilinged hole beginning to fill, then Amanda spoke again. "You know, I think I could bear for MacLeod to show up now."

He laughed as much as he could with her weight on him and tried to ignore the way the movement let more water rush under him. "Don't get hasty."

Another grating sound, even closer, made them freeze and then came her quick whisper. "What was that?"

"I can't see either, remember? Amanda … it's getting wetter down here." The water was beginning to creep up the side of his head, already lapping against the edges of his ears and introducing a not entirely unpleasant lassitude to his thoughts.

"Turn." Her voice was decisive, He blinked.

"What?"

Speaking slowly, as if he were an obtuse child, she explained her intent. "I'm going to try and roll under you, cooperate."

It felt as if his brain was slowing down to a crawl, making it hard to grasp her meaning. "Why?"

"Have you discovered how to breathe under water or survive hypothermia?"

Her knee dug into his stomach and the pain bought him back with a gasp. "Rolling."

-o-

They had switched which side of the street they watched for police now, and Adam firmly kept his back to the witch. Every part of his body language screamed for her to leave him alone, he knew it did, but he still failed to be surprised when Greta spoke.

"Why do you keep letting him do that?"

"I'm sorry, did you say something?"

She huffed as if she were the injured party. "C'mon, you're still angry at me?"

The sheer gall of it broke his resolve to ignore her, which had probably been her intent. Methos wouldn't have fallen for it, he knew, but Adam was clinging on tooth and nail. This is was getting distinctly confusing. "Given it's only been ten minutes since you completely betrayed my trust, what do you expect?"

"You'd kinda have to trust me at all before I could do that. Also, hypocrite much?"

"I don't trust anyone."

"No kidding. So why do you keep letting him do that?"

"Do what?"

"Shove you around, yell. You never stand up for yourself - which you wouldn't have to do at all if you gave him the full story in the first place, and you never do that either. What's so difficult? Just tell him killing Michael might turn you into a psycho of biblical proportions. Again."

The bitterness that had settled as MacLeod and Richie had silently descended back into the catacombs was beginning to lift. Briefly he considered trying to hold onto it like a blanket on a cold day, but it seemed too much trouble. The last frayed threads became a bite in his reply.

"Yes, because that will go over extremely well. And, I'm sorry, when did you become my therapist?"

"There isn't enough money in the world. I'm just a little curious how you can just take it. You don't look like a masochist and it's not like you can't stop him."

"Maybe it's penance. Yes, fine, stop laughing. I do feel guilt, you know."

"But you don't let it get in the way, you're practical. So why?"

"I like being underestimated. If I never fight back properly, he doesn't know what I can do."

Silence stretched long enough that he allowed himself a tentative hope she had decided she'd picked on him enough for the night. Then she started again as if she was in some kind of adjudicated debate. "Okay, so why not give the full story?"

"Same reason, information is power."

Another pause and then a too mild response. "Uh huh."

His irritation spiked. "What?"

"Nothing, I buy it."

"It's the truth."

"Sure, I know."

He mentally consigned her to every hell he could remember and a few he was fairly sure he was making up on the spot, but it was the thought that counted. At the back of his mind there was a slightly nagging sensation of wrongness that he couldn't bring to light, something missing. He let Methos work on it while Adam replied.

"Fine, I don't want him to know, okay? I like being the person he thinks I am." He smirked after a second. "'_How hard a thing it is, to distinguish goodnesse from hypocrisie …_'i"

"Whatever, Shakespeare."

"Boccaccio. Your ignorance is offensive, what are they teaching in schools now?"

"Relevance. Look, maybe he'd understand. You're not giving him the chance doing things this way; you keep making it look as bad as possible. He wants to think the best of you, why won't you let him?"

"It's just … better this way."

"You mean safer, and easier."

His mistake, of course, had been allowing her to live. In retrospect, he should have poisoned her coffee on first sight.

Levelling his tone, he made an effort to explain his position, realising even as he started that it would sound ridiculous however he put it.

"I mean the person he is won't understand the person I am and, if he did, he wouldn't be the person he is … and if he wasn't, it wouldn't matter. Did any part of that make any sense at all? And why the hell am I even bothering to justify myself to you?"

"I'm very personable. So, basically, you're a superstitious five thousand year old with an identity crisis and an inferiority complex … or you just can't be bothered with living up to anyone's expectations."

"I know exactly who I am and, if I forget, I can just go and read the scrolls about me. Also, I have it on good authority you can see my ego from space."

"So you're lazy and credulous?"

"It's good to see you embracing the path of the gibbering mad woman."

Blessed silence fell and he refused to feel even a sliver of guilt over using her probable fate against her. Then again, she might start crying again now, which would be awkward. Or maybe she was angry, but that meant nothing to him and …

"Thank you." Quiet but, unless she had suddenly developed Oscar-worthy acting skills, sincere.

He was very sure that even Adam should be better at predicting responses than this. "Excuse me?"

"You're not mad at me anymore."

"I am - I'll be conducting a dire revenge shortly."

"Just tell him, Methos."

"Oh, gibber off." Finally the wrongness nagging at him clicked into place. "You know who we haven't seen lately?"

"Who?" She turned to look at him as he walked past her towards the main street where the police car had completely failed to make its ten-minutely drive by.

"LeBrun's little helpers ... stay here."

-o-

"This? This is the worst place you've dragged me into and I remember Ursa's nicely appointed sewer. With the skulls. Remember the skulls? Look, there's some more. The nostalgia's got me tearing up here … no, wait, that's the _smell_." Richie sidled away from the cracked and broken remnants of bones, a sad little pile half buried by the silt. They didn't belong there; the frequent floods had probably washed them from their supposed final resting place.

"I didn't drag you then and I'm not dragging you now, you followed me." Duncan spared him the scantest attention, eyes following the path of his torch as it sent a thin light over the green-tinged brickwork. Clearly the basement had once been far larger but time and the traffic above had collapsed parts, sealing off one side entirely.

Richie stumbled on the unsteady ground that was mostly hidden under black water and swore under his breath, "Sure, let facts sway your argument."

MacLeod trod carefully, sliding his feet forward, letting them seek and avoid obstacles in the darkness while he searched for a scrap of cloth in the wall. It was a reasonable hope Darius would use the same method of showing the way as he had with the Chronicle except, of course, Darius wouldn't have known he would be the one to find it.

The low muttering continued behind him, he ignored it for as long as he could, appreciating the gesture of the younger man keeping him company. But eventually his final nerve snapped. "Richie, enough."

"Yeah, yeah. Shutting up."

To his mild surprise, the muttering didn't start up again three seconds later. Now there was only dripping water, the dull rumble of traffic above and their progress through the debris. Despite his best efforts, his thoughts kept skipping back to the man standing watch above them. His emotions had taken too much of a battering to be able to work up the sort of anger he was reasonably sure he was perfectly entitled to, they hovered around a morose disappointment that was dangerously close to depression.

Brooding was something he was aware he was famous for and, he had to admit, there was enough cause for that. But it wasn't something he could afford now, or at least he could switch targets. The fact they were coming up with nothing but mud, bruises and, from the sound of Richie's cough, pneumonia was fairly disheartening all on its own. Again he second guessed his decision to find Darius' bequest before beginning, if necessary, a basement to basement search of the Latin Quarter.

But he knew it was the right decision, instinct rarely let him down when he actually listened to it. The nagging worry was the length of time whatever Darius had hidden had been down in the damp. If it was a parchment it would have long since disintegrated.

When Richie spoke again, the tone echoed his own doubt.

"Mac, there's nothing here. Maybe he left something and it got picked up by someone else."

There would be something. There had to be something. "No, it's here, we just haven't found it. Look for cloth."

"It's all mulch."

"Okay, check all the bricks."

"We can't check them all, most of them are buried. The only thing still in one piece is …"

They both turned to look back at the solid stone architecture behind them. It looked like it would survive Armageddon and Darius would have known that equally as well.

"…is the door frame. You're a genius." He grinned and ruffled Richie's hair as he sloshed his way back towards the doorway they'd entered through.

The younger man twisted away with a snort. "Any time you feel like telling Greta that, go ahead."

Their fingers quested over the stonework, searching for anything out of place. Finally his nails scraped over a deep nick in the stone. Long and bevelled, old and worn, too regular to be a natural fissure. It reminded him of the scars the knights sharpening their swords had left as their mark on stone gates but, unless this was robbed stone, that was unlikely to be the cause here.

He followed the line along and up to the top and a small but unnatural indentation in the old bricks above the doorway. Exerting pressure made something click and give and he almost fell back as the brick he had been using for support fell away in his hand.

Reclaiming his balance and his grip, he took a closer look at the smooth stone he was now holding. It was hollowed out in the centre and, when he upended it, something small and dully gleaming fell out onto his palm - along with a thick pool of sludge he shook away with a grimace.

Richie leaned closer, shining his torch as a spotlight. "What is it?"

Their find stood out in the stark light, stripped of any mystery the darkness had given it. Gold, misshapen, and undecorated with any gems or silver inset. A sad little piece of metal covered in black muck. "I think it's a bracelet."

"He couldn't afford a safe like everyone else?"

Gently running the thin band through his fingers, he cleaned off the worst of the mud. It was an infant's, far too small for an adult or even an older child. The style was reminiscent of the sort given as Christening gifts, a flat loop with a slide to tighten or loosen. Without cleaning it further he couldn't be sure of the origin or date, or even make out if there was pattern engraved on it, but he was strangely confident at least one of the people on the street above would be able to provide more information.

"This has to be it, let's go."

"Awww, do we have to?" Somehow overcoming the disappointment, Richie beat him out the door.

It was only as they were making their way back down the tunnel he realised the signal of an Immortal which should have been broadcasting from above, wasn't.

He quickened his pace.

-o-

It had taken no little effort and defiance of physics to reverse their positions, as well as the unwanted information that he was surprisingly heavy for a man of his height and should consider dieting immediately in case he crushed every woman he met.

He had just grunted in response to that, deciding that Amanda probably deserved at least one shot at him.

Now she lay on her side below him, the awkwardness of the position uncomfortable for both of them but the furthest he was going to get away from the water. He kept his head tucked down but was still able to feel the ceiling above scraping against his scalp when he took more than a shallow breath.

When he felt his eyes beginning to close again, and felt her breathing slowing, he spoke.

"If they wanted us dead, why not just kill us?" His throat felt raw, barely managing more than a whisper, but he felt her move below him as she jerked back into wakefulness.

"Think, Joe. Salt. Running water. It's a test." Her voice was strained, but still held the snap of alertness and irritation it had earlier.

"Huh. What do we get if we pass?"

"A good Christian burial."

"Christ, what if we fail?"

"Then we get burned at the stake."

"So, lose-lose is what you're saying. Okay, what can we do?"

"The good news is the water's softening the ropes, I might be able to slip them."

Finally the sharp little movements she was making made sense, he had been worried it was the beginning of some kind of seizure which, now he thought about it, made no sense at all. It was also starting to get pleasantly warm. He had to stay awake. He really, really had to stay awake.

Something had been said. Ropes. Good news. There. "I'm not going to love the bad news, am I?"

"Well, I don't know if I can do it before I drown."

Another strong shudder under him and the sound of choking before a stream of protracted swearing in, if he had to guess, middle English. "I thought you … said you … could breathe … under water"

"No, I said you can't. I come back after I die."

"Amanda!" Even if she came back, the thought of her dying over and over trying to keep him alive for just a little longer was appalling. Once more a surge of energy ran through him, but it was borrowing from reserves the cold had depleted some time ago. "Methos can, why can't you?"

"Well, I'm not Methos." She stilled completely, then whispered after a second. "Joe?"

"What?"

"You have your foot in my eye."

He thought about this for a couple of seconds, knowing there was a flaw in her logic and patiently waiting for his numbed mind to find it.

"'Manda?"

"What?"

"I don't have … feet and they … took my … prosthetics."

"… then something down here just poked me."

"Work … faster"

As he felt the frigid touch of the water begin to creep at him once more, he knew fast wasn't going to be fast enough.

i From the first story in "The Decameron", by Giovanni Boccaccio.


	9. Part 9

It was even colder above ground than it had been below, but MacLeod barely noticed as he hauled himself through the manhole and walked directly over to the woman watching the street. "You just let him go?"

Greta turned, her expression was apologetic but she frowned slightly after a second. "Sorry, but I was supposed to stop him how? I'm pretty sure he's a little old for safety reins and I forgot to bring a machine gun."

Given she had a point and they were running out of time - if they hadn't run out already - he didn't pursue the issue. Prioritise. Focus. He pushed the little bracelet into her hand and wrapped her fingers around it to make sure it wouldn't be dropped.

"This is what we found. Please, see if you can get anything from it. I'm going to find Adam. Don't move. Do not move." A beat and he looked at the young man who'd drawn to a halt beside him. "What are you not going to do?"

Richie flushed with equal parts embarrassment and anger. "Geez, Mac, c'mon."

Greta's voice was distracted, her concentration taken by the find. "We understand, just go."

He went.

The presence of another Immortal slid across his mind after just a few seconds of a flat out run onto the main street and was more welcome than his survival instinct would have liked. His hand found the hilt of his katana anyway, staying there until his eyes picked the familiar dark shape out of the shadows on the corner of the junction ahead.

At a jog he made his way over, wondering what had Adam's attention so caught he didn't even look around. Then he registered it too: the street was nearly clear of people or traffic, an unheard of sight in the middle of the city. The few people remaining were almost running, faces pale and set with shock and panic, going to extreme lengths to avoid touching anyone or anything. Some held tissues or handkerchiefs over their mouths.

"They're a posy short of the thirteen-forties." Methos' tone was observational, as if he were making a report.

It was probably the safest way to work together without accidentally making attempts on one another's life, so he followed suit. "Doyle."

"I'd swear he was in the river."

"Did you see his face?"

"I couldn't see a bloody thing. A body under tarpaulin with a knife in its heart was the best I could manage. Who do you _think_ it was?"

Some of the level tone cracked to show the anger underneath and unthinkingly he let himself snap back. "Well, it wasn't him, was it?"

"Wonderful. I suppose this will be my fault as well?"

Taking a breath and then another, MacLeod bought his composure back under control and tried to think his way through the problem. There were questions at the core that needed answers. "We're missing something. You said he 'routinely' gets dealt with by the Xerxesi - how does he keep getting away from them at all? A partner?"

"He didn't have one on the occasions I've crossed his path. If he does they'd have to be an Immortal or wearing a hazmat suit twenty-four seven, both of which would be problematical."

"All right, how is he spreading the contagion? If he's bringing it in from somewhere, he should be infecting everyone on route but he isn't."

"I always assumed … I suppose you're right. There's nothing in his Chronicle about a germ factory, though, and that's the only other way he could be timing his infection."

"Unless he's creating the virus himself … His Chronicle, is there anything helpful in there?"

"Only long list of the people who've died Watching him."

"And … what is he doing here? Now?"

"It's possible some group or other hired him for some biological terrorism, I suppose"

"Come on Methos, you have to know something!"

Adam's mouth opened and shut before finally ducked his head and replied. "I do, butnot the answer to any of those questions. I … I know the Xerxesi are keeping him alive because Darius created them to. I know that an Immortal taking his head runs an incredible risk of taking a Dark Quickening at the very least and I know there's a possibility he can cure as well as infect. The rest I have no more idea of than _you_ do."

MacLeod nodded, adding the new threads to the tapestry. Scientifically it was still making no sense and his thoughts skittered into other explanations. "Okay … so … so maybe Doyle can control this. Maybe he's the germ factory _and_ the antiviral. Maybe that's why Darius wanted him alive and maybe there's some way he can stop all this getting any worse."

"Do you want to know how many times you just said 'maybe'?"

He shook his head, he really didn't. "No. We found what Darius left; come and see if it means anything to you."

They walked back at a fast pace, making no further attempt to talk to each other. MacLeod was aware of the tension in the man at his side, but he had become attuned to the body language a long time ago. There was understanding with the silence; it was when Methos opened his mouth all objective interpretation went out the window.

Finding Greta and Richie were still where he'd left them was enough of a surprise he had the feeling that he was becoming more of a pessimist than he'd realised. Or, possibly, it had just been a really bad week.

Richie glanced at Greta, took in her unfocussed gaze, and reported in her stead. "We've gotten most of the mud off, there's writing all over it. I think it's Latin" He turned Greta's unresisting hand slightly so he could see the writing on the bracelet, squinted, and read out slowly "'Crucks santa sits me he lucks?'"

While MacLeod moved his lips around the phonetics of the mutilated language, trying to work out the real words, he felt Methos shudder beside him. "Are you _trying_ to cause me pain? '_Crux sancta sit mihi lux'_i"

Greta blinked and looked at Adam for a long moment. When MacLeod saw her focus was actually on, rather than through, the man and that there was a hint of actual recognition in her eyes, he spoke to her as gently as he could. "What about any, you know …"

"I see … lights" Her empty hand raised, fingers splayed, then moved as if she could trace their patterns in the air before her. "Colours everywhere, like a kaleidoscope. And shadows … everything is red." Her other hand tightened around the bracelet "And I see the Princes, falling in the dark." He could almost see her drawing the scattered pieces of her mind together. Her voice was stronger as she handed the bracelet to Methos. "That's it."

The deluge of information was both energising and discouraging. He'd been hoping for something that would make instant sense and this was a foolish, maddening, riddle. Swallowing his resentment against the Fates, he looked between the two most likely to solve the puzzle. "What does it mean?"

Methos looked thoughtfully at Greta, then down at the bracelet in his hand. "The latest episode of Bewitched, I have no idea. But the Latin is 'May the Holy Cross be my light'."

Richie spoke quietly and without apparent sarcasm. "Nice idea."

"Yes, except for the fact it's part of a larger verse which was very fashionable with exorcists."

"O-kay, less nice. What does it say on the other side?"

After turning the object in his hand, Methos read out the second inscription without hesitation, a dry amusement in his tone. "'_Et saeculum per ignem'_, translation: 'And the world on fire' – it's from another exorcism rite."

"So we officially hit unsubtle. This is not a happy bangle. There's one more, all around the inside." Richie came forward and turned the bracelet so Adam could see it, using his finger to trace out the letters within. "Veeares-enesemvee-esemquel-eyeveebee.ii The what now?"

The invasion of his personal space was allowed by Methos about as long as MacLeod expected it would be, which was to say not a second longer than necessary. The man stepped back and held the 'unhappy bangle' up to the light, studying every part of it. "That sound you hear is Tyndale on spin-dry in his grave. It's shorthand for saying '_Vade retro me, Satana'. 'Get thee behind me, Satan.'"_

Richie returned to Greta's side, giving up any proprietary interest in the find. "You're pretty useful to have around."

Trying to keep his impatience out of his voice, MacLeod spoke quickly in an effort to keep them on topic. He let his inner antiquarian out to play. "That kind of bracelet isn't unusual, they've been made since the twelfth century. It's not rare for them to have religious inscriptions either."

Methos nodded slightly. "I'm not an expert, I do know the inside part was a popular protection against evil. But the other two? 'Let the Holy Cross be my light'? That's as good as saying 'turn left at the old oak tree, pardner', in context."

Richie winced. "Never try that accent again. You mean it's a code?"

Rolling his eyes, Methos finally broke off his study of the writing to look at the younger man sardonically. "Codes are traditionally harder to break than just reading directions. I mean it's a map."

Another bickering match was brewing, MacLeod stepped in again, turning his attention fully on Adam. "Then where's he saying to go?"

After a second, there was a light groan as his answer. "He's pointing to _Sainte Chapelle_."

"Isn't that the chapel on _Cité _with Notre Dame?Next to …_" _

"… Pont Neuf bridge." Methos finished for Richie and MacLeod understood the old man's disgust. They had been so close.

"That was on our list of places to visit; only then Greta had that 'river of bodies' moment. Why there?" Richie's interest in the conversation was minimal, tone subdued. A glance showed the boy, man, was watching his woman and failing to keep the worry from his expression.

It caught him for a moment but Methos spoke again and he sent the resolve to speak to Richie to the back of his mind as he knew he did too often.

"Because its windows were a wonder to make you think you saw heaven when the sun was behind them. They made patterns over the floor and touched you with a thousand colours. Come for the crown of thorns, stay for the lightshow."

MacLeod had been there, he knew very well the spectacle being described. It was impressive even now. When he'd first seen it he'd been struck speechless, open mouthed like the barbarian he was. Connor had laughed at him for a week.

"_We came too late. To see it at dawn, kinsman, is … are ye trying to catch flies?"_

The click in his mind almost made him grin with success as he turned to Methos, but he remembered his previous anger and returned to the unsmiling expression he had been wearing. "The world being on fire … Sunrise?"

A short nod and a decisive answer. "It would have to be."

Richie looked between them, even more at a loss. "What? Why?"

"Because the cross is on the altar and the altar is on the east side."

"Did you two just read for a solid decade or something?"

"It doesn't matter. Adam, Richie, go to _Ile de la Cité_, see where the bracelet takes you. Greta and I will go to the Quarter. It will be sunrise soon, so move fast."

There were no mocking replies, for which he was grateful, just two identically timed nods and Richie and Adam were jogging away. He looked to Greta who stared back at him with the absence of sight he was starting to regret even as he appreciated its value.

"Shush, Amanda's sleeping."

i Crux sancta sit mihi lux / Non draco sit mihi dux / Vade retro satana / Nunquam suade mihi vana / Sunt mala quae libas / Ipse venena bibas

May the Holy Cross be my light / Let not the dragon lead me / Step back Satan / Never tempt me with vain things / What you offer me is evil / Drink the poison yourself. - originating from a 1415 manuscript found in the Abbey of Metten in Bavaria

ii VRS:NSMV:SMQL:IVB


	10. Part 10

They'd talked, Joe couldn't remember about what; half the conversation had probably been in his head anyway. Amanda had died from the cold three times in quick succession before the water claimed her completely. She hadn't said a word about it, but he'd counted his heartbeats as he waited for hers and felt the shudders when she returned only to die again.

The fourth time there was a single tremor and a gentle gasp that ended on a soft choke as she drew the water in; she didn't fight at all. That was unnatural, even for an Immortal, and then he realised she'd tried to make it easier on him. One spasm beyond her control and then she was just gone. His count had gone on until he'd lost his place and then he resumed their conversation.

The water was biting at him now; she had to be fully submerged. He knew she couldn't hear him and he knew it was pointless … but he still talked.

It was something to listen to, something to concentrate on. He doubted he'd get the chance to drown. He felt heavy and warm and tired, ready to slip away with more resignation than regret, hoping Adam wouldn't write the eulogy when they rang the bells.

Something grated above but he didn't pay it any attention, if anything 'pure stubborn', as his momma had called it, made him croak louder.

Another sound from above overrode his commentary on the latest Blues musicians on the circuit, but only because it sounded like a voice. "Be quiet."

He broke off, trying to work out if it was real or his imagination. After convincing himself that his imagination could come up with a better hallucination than that, he tentatively tried to speak more loudly. "Who's …?"

"Quiet, I said." It was a young voice, breaking on the divide between boy and man, a touch of an accent.

That was wrong, a kid shouldn't be here. Reality swam in circles around him. "Get outta …"

"_Listen_. I'm going to pull you up but you have to help, I can't lift you all the way."

Fuzzily, Joe tried to make sense of the words being spoken but it felt like he was trying to translate a foreign language; a foreign language being spoken backwards through static by a burning-card holding dwarf.

He couldn't feel the hands that gripped his arms, but the sensation of being lifted made him struggle instinctively and he was unceremoniously dropped back onto Amanda. The impact jolted some sense back into him; the babble above began to coalesce into something more intelligible.

"If you can't help me, at least be _still_."

He was lifted again and this time managed not to impede the progress by actively struggling. The passage up in the darkness was disjointed, punctuated with pain and swearing - he wasn't always sure whose. At some point, he knew, he must have blacked out because he somehow went from having the grate digging into his ribs to being flat on his back on a rough, cold but dry surface.

There was movement beside him, clothes rustling against his own. He reached out a hand to test for reality and had it shrugged away. The darkness was still absolute, but it had a cleaner quality and, as his sluggishly moving hands told him, it was warmer. The first pin pricks of feeling began to return and he gritted his teeth against making any noise.

After the sound of more exertion the kid fell back against him heavily. There was too much weight for just one person and he ignored the spasms in his muscles to reach forward and try and help drag Amanda in.

He gained a grip on wet clothes that had to be hers and pulled, then stopped as she seemed to catch on something. Their rescuer grunted and there was a slithering sound, then something tore and Joe was able to pull her a little further. "The dead are even heavier than you."

No one who sounded that put out, rather than horrified, was likely to be unaware of Amanda's status, but the effort had to be made - just in case. "She's not dead; she's just ... uh …"

"Sleeping?" He could hear clear amusement. "No, I don't think so. But she'll wake up soon enough."

"You're one of them." Joe knew he should have made it a question and preserved some illusion about how much he was aware of, but it was difficult to be at the top of his game when all the signs of returning life to his body were making him wish he was dead. Muscles jumped under nerves that were sending waves of stabbing pain through him, his lungs felt raw and abused and his chest felt like someone was sitting on it. He'd be lucky if he avoided pneumonia.

The voice floated out of the darkness again, slightly further away than before. "Yes."

Talking hurt, but it did keep his mind off the worst of the situation, so he tried to keep the kid, guy, talking. "Why help us?"

"I have an interest, a curiosity if you want; I'm not here to take her head." The reply was slightly laboured sounding and he discovered why as the weight of Amanda was fully settled against him, the kid must have managed to roll her over himself. She was still cold and not breathing but Joe didn't move away. It seemed like the least he could do was share some body heat with the receptacle she'd eventually return to.

It seemed like the right moment to introduce himself. "I'm Joe."

"Joe Dawson. Who runs Le Blues – a popular but not high profile venue - and knows a lot more about Immortals than he should thanks to the tattoo on his wrist. The woman is Amanda and both of you are acquaintances with ... Adam, I believe is his name now?"

Well, that was on the disconcerting side. "Okay, you do have an interest."

"But not in you." A low chuckle cracked at the end and he winced. Puberty for eternity was something Joe couldn't begin to imagine.

He suspected it wouldn't be the healthiest thing in the world to let his sympathy show and tried to sound as nonchalant as he could with the onset of pneumonia, a dead woman at his side and an eternal teenager sitting somewhere in the darkness.

"Do I get your name?"

"Stefan."

"Stefan …"

"Just Stefan."

His brain was beginning to tick over again, which was something to be profoundly thankful for. He began to mentally catalogue those Immortals who could be identified by the name or its derivatives. There were a lot of them; he needed to know more to narrow it down. "Who is your interest, Stefan?"

"Originally it was Michael Doyle and the question of his whereabouts are still of some concern to me."

"They concern everyone, kid … and now?"

Stefan's voice was timely but clipped, signalling that question time was over. "Now I've expanded my horizons … She's back."

A moment later Amanda moved, drawing in a ragged breath of air then choking out the water that had flooded her lungs. Joe held her until she stopped heaving, awkwardly trying to provide some comfort.

Finally she settled back against him, already feeling warmer. "Joe?"

"Right here."

"There's someone … Duncan?"

"Not exactly."

"Richie? Adam?"

The kid spoke politely as she fell silent. "Stefan."

"Stefan." The blank tone suggested she didn't recognise the guy either; Joe removed a few Immortals from his mental list. Her voice took on a sweet tone he knew to be entirely false "Well, I'm very pleased to meet you."

"I'm not here for your head."

The cloying was replaced by the harder version she used when she wasn't trying to charm her way into someone's good graces. "Which is good, because I'm not sure how you'd swing a sword in here. Is that how you begin all your conversations?"

"I find it saves misunderstandings later."

Amanda squirmed against Joe as she righted herself but quickly made it to her hands and knees. "How do we get out of here?"

"We crawl."

From the sound of activity behind him, Joe guessed Stefan was also positioning himself to start moving. "Oh, good."

They crawled. The rest had given him some chance to regain some energy and it was amazing what adrenaline could do for you, but Joe knew he was rapidly reaching the end of his endurance. Every time he faltered, he was gently pushed from behind. Pride kept him moving far longer than he would have thought possible.

Finally, he had to ask they rest. Amanda didn't even muster a sarcastic remark; clearly he must have sounded worse than he thought.

His breath was rattling his lungs, the fluid building fast. They ached with every breath and the idea of talking was an anathema. But he had to know, he just had to.

"You're _that_ Stefan, aren't you?"

"What?"

"You took the head of Donovan Brice."

There was a long pause and he knew Amanda was taking this in as well. Brice's death was the Mary Celeste of beheadings; a mystery over a century old. The Watcher at the time had sworn she'd looked away for a couple of seconds, no more, and when she'd looked back Brice had been a head shorter and a Quickening was dying away. An impossible kill. A note had been left on the body, politely letting the discoverer know 'Stefan' had killed the man, and that was it.

Stefan's voice echoed up at last. "You do know more than you should."

"If you're here for Doyle, why isn't he dead yet?"

"I thought he had been removed from the board, I was mistaken."

Joe opened his mouth to pursue the topic, but all that came out was a wheeze. His remaining strength would be needed make it up, more than likely. He concentrated on putting one arm in front of the other and pulling himself up what he quickly realised was an incline, his world contracting down to the sole purpose of moving forward.

At last his hand came down on metal edging and then some ignoble shoving from behind expelled them all into the twilight of pre-dawn that was blindingly bright in comparison to the pitch black behind them. He held a hand over his eyes, letting the light through in increments until, squinting and blinking away tears, he was more or less able to see.

Stefan stood above him; Stefan the ghost. His name had become a byword, shorthand. Didn't see the fight or recognise a Challenger, call the winner Stefan until all the facts were in. Early chronicles superstitiously believed he had the power of invisibility, later ones suggested he was just that damn good and, more recently, it had been suggested he didn't exist at all.

He looked fourteen, if you were feeling generous.

Amanda stood too, inches over the head of their rescuer, and looked at him with a clinical eye. "I thought you'd be taller."

A solemn nod, as if this wasn't something the kid heard twice daily, and a flat tone. "So did I."

"Why did you help us?"

As Amanda had decided to take over the interrogation, he lay back on the grass and looked around. They'd come out next to the river, there was a road above them; he could hear the clamour of horns and tires that seemed unusually busy even for Parisian traffic.

Stefan answered after a brief hesitation, not lying, he thought, but weighing his words before he spoke them. "Because I was there and I could."

"Why were you there at all?"

"I was waiting."

"For what?"

"For _whom_."

The two stared at each other for a long moment before Amanda crossed her arms and spoke accusingly.

"You're not going to let us live."

Stefan tilted his head, bemused. "I'm not?"

"No. You survive because no one knows who you are."

"True. But you won't kill me; I'm under the protection of someone you hold in regard."

Now it was Amanda's turn to be surprised. Her mouth opened and shut once before she asked with some disbelief. "You know MacLeod?"

"No, we've never met."

"Then how can he protect you?"

"I would imagine he can't."

It didn't seem Stefan was planning to name his benefactor, but Amanda could no more let that thread drop than she could have the crown jewels of England. "You don't mean _Adam_?"

"If that's what you want to call him, I know him as Mattio."

"You're friends?"

"I've sworn to kill him and I will have your oath you will not challenge me until I've taken his head."

"Kill him!? I'm not promising anything." Amanda shook her head vehemently and stalked back out of his vision. Joe noticed she was avoiding looking at him and he couldn't quite work out why.

"As you want." Stefan sat down, his slim hand took Joe's wrist and checked for a pulse, he put up a brief fight and then let the kid play nurse. All he needed was five minutes rest and he'd be up and fighting again.

Maybe ten minutes.

Amanda paced in and out of his line of vision. "I need a sword."

Stefan stood again, gave a shrug and looked around. "I'm strangely reluctant to find you one."

"Oh, I'm not going to challenge you. I just want to go talk to whoever it was that snatched us."

"The Xerxesi? They won't be very happy to see you."

He couldn't see her, but he could imagine the steel smile to go with her too-sweet tone. "I'll do my best to make sure they don't have to live with the disappointment."

The normally serene courtyard before Sainte Chapelle was heaving in the false dawn - it looked as if the half of Paris who hadn't been at the police station had opted to find their salvation in less secular areas.

"This is new." Richie had been silent for most of the run over, for which Adam had been profoundly grateful, but he wished the boy could find it in his heart to sound even a little winded. His own chest was aching from the run and … strangely heavy.

At the back of his mind he clinically catalogued other symptoms fast appearing, but mostly he watched the crowd for danger signs. When reasonably sure they weren't about to be trampled, Adam finally replied. "No, this is pretty old. Everyone turns to their bottle or their maker at the end of the world."

"There's been a lot of those, huh?"

"More than you'd think."

In the growing light he could see younger man's skin was pasty and, from the slightly repulsed study he was receiving in turn, he suspected he wasn't looking much more encouraging. They'd been infected, probably along with MacLeod and the others, and the increased activity had exacerbated it.

Assume six hours grace after onset of symptoms for a cure to be effective and they were more than running out of time. Their breath was white in the air, droplets clinging to molecules. In his mind he saw the particles spread and fought the urge to scrub his skin.

Richie smothered a cough and sniffed with something less than gentility. "So how you gonna get us in there?"

"Me? You're the petty criminal."

"Petty? I was never petty. Anyway, this isn't about breaking and entering, this is crowd control."

Adam's gaze landed on a familiar figure standing inside the semi-circle that was providing a human wall between the riot and the doors of the chapel. The features might have been hidden by a beret and scarf but the great-coat wrapped height of the man was unmistakable.

Either LeBrun was getting so good at following them he now arrived before they got there, or Lady Luck was accidentally smiling on them for once. It was probably a good idea to act quickly before she noticed her mistake.

"Maybe we can get a police escort." He started walking, hoping a fast pace would get him through the outer edges of the chaos on momentum alone. After a second he felt Richie catch up and follow in his wake for a moment before stepping up to help the push effort.

"Oh, sure, great idea. How exactly you planning to swing that one? Old Jedi mind tricks?"

"LeBrun's over there." He nodded towards the man in question and smiled slightly on seeing that the Inspector was already staring directly at them with the air of someone who had just decided resignation was the better part of valour.

"And out of the goodness of his heart, he's going to give us a break?" Richie started to slow and he reached a hand to his arm to keep them both moving, gripping hard and altering course towards the bastion of civilization that was the riot van and its commander.

"Two parts curiosity to eight parts desperation, it's a recipe for success."

"You're a very cynical man."

"Actually, that was optimism." They drew to a halt in front of the ring of shields surrounding the van; he smiled as charmingly as he knew how. Despite this, they were waved through at their new best hope's nod.

"Pierson. Ryan. What do you want?" LeBrun stood with his hands in his pockets. What skin was visible was flushed, but only from the chill. There was no trace of the hoarseness plaguing them in his voice either. The man was as healthy as the winner of this year's 'Healthiest Horse' competition, if Doctor Adams was any judge.

"Inside Sainte Chapelle."

The soft huff of purely Gallic derision was just about audible behind the thick scarf. "You and everyone else here." The policeman's gaze turned from them to the crowd, there was the barest hint of sympathy in his voice as he went on. "The worst afflicted are bleeding from their eyes. Their nails. The hospitals are turning them away, where else can they turn?"

"Why not Notre-Dame?" The view over the police shields showed the square was still filling. For the moment it was shouts and clamouring but it was just a matter of time before it became screams and trampling and Adam wanted to be gone long before that.

"There is talk of a miracle cure; I am waiting for an official to be found who has the authorisation to pursue this further. Unfortunately, this may take some time."

"'Red tape' is a particularly ignoble cause of death, Inspector. We need to get inside."

"You are unwell?"

Adam shot a glance at Richie and met a blank gaze. Unhelpful. Various excuses ran through his mind as he turned back to LeBrun, but none of them would sound sane to anyone that wasn't heavily medicated. On the off-chance creative genius would strike, he began speaking slowly. "No. No, we're ... undercover … Vatican … health inspectors …"

"… my son." Richie's addition was quiet and deadpan but still managed to retain a hint of mockery.

No retort sprung to mind; apparently his brain didn't want to have anything to do with him. He couldn't say he blamed it; he'd fallen about as far as it was possible to go.

"I believe it is the time for truth, M'sieur. Everything."

"Ah, c'mon." Richie scowled, finally weighing in as he was confronted by the injustices of bureaucracy. "You can't keep us out just because we're not spilling everything."

LeBrun pretended to consider this for a long moment before replying in an even tone. "Actually, I believe that is very much the spirit of my profession."

The crowd had nearly doubled and soon sheer numbers would see the thin blue line turned into a wide red smear and the great doors run down. Adam licked his lips, trying to reintroduce them to the concept of moisture. "And I suppose trust is out of the question?"

"It is wonderful to see a sense of humour in these trying times."

"Adam's like this really big brain research guy; he knows what he's doing and he thinks there's maybe a cure in there."

LeBrun appeared unmoved by the glowing validation of prowess. "What gives you this impression? I do not recall seeing Virologist listed as occupation on either of your files. Weekend hobbyists, perhaps?"

Truth is was, then. For any given value of the word, of course. Adam canted his head slightly and appealed directly to the curious mix of idealistic fatalism he knew lurked at the core of the policeman. "We may be able to help and, more importantly, how can we possibly make matters any _worse_?"

The man studied them both unblinkingly for another long, hard, moment then finally nodded as he conceded the logic. "I will come with you."

Richie stepped back to gesture for LeBrun to lead the way. "Fine, whatever. Just get us in there."

A bunch of keys were produced from the huge overcoat and gloved fingers worked through until they found a small, modern looking, silver key. It wasn't quite what Adam had been expecting. Then he saw the large padlock covering the expected locks. They hadn't wanted to take any chances and, sooner or later, there would be no one left to hold the line.

He remembered how, during more than one war, the stained glass windows had been painstakingly removed and taken to safety. There was no time for that now, but they were doing what they could, taking the same steps the warders of the time had taken sixty years before, two-hundred years before, and before that too.

He felt old. Or maybe it was just the ache growing in his bones.

The crowd surged behind them as the door opened fleetingly to allow only three entrants; he could hear the enraged desperation even though it was dulled by the thick wooden doors that closed loudly behind them.

They stood in the lower chapel; the dark arches already beginning to be tinged with red as dawn inexorably drew closer.

LeBrun stood watching as they moved further in; Adam tried to force himself to think like Darius. They had both been marauding warlords, how hard could it be?

"Okay, now where?" Richie looked at him with the sort of unquestioning faith he had made every possible effort to dissuade. It would seem Ryan couldn't be taught after all.

Clarity broke through and there was a relief that went straight to his knees. He put one hand against the wall as he thought the deduction through and found no obvious flaws. The faith was unwelcome, he'd never said it was always misplaced … "This place is for the servants … we need the upper level."

"How you figure that?" Richie kept a pace as he jogged towards the upper tier access, he could hear the slower steps of the inspector following.

"I have a really big brain, remember?" A really big brain and a working insight into Darius' warped sense of humour. The upper chapel was for kings and princes…

The sun broke through the stained glass as they ran onto the top floor, fracturing the light in coloured shards around them. Through the beauty a dark line flowed uncut, as the shadow cast by the high crucifix in front of the alcove window lengthened over the pews and floor.

Richie was caught by the display, mouth dropping open, dazzled by the splendour of the artisans of God.

Adam couldn't say he blamed him; you'd have to be some kind of soulless heathen not to be awed into immobility. A soulless heathen or, he discovered on hearing LeBrun unhesitatingly following him, a policeman.

With the sun directly behind the crucifix, the very tip of the shadow touched a fissure in the bottom corner stone of the opposite wall. It was hard to imagine a more inaccessible place that didn't involve actual archaeology.

LeBrun finally spoke as he ran his own finger down what was obviously, on closer inspection, a man-made gap. "This is load bearing, you cannot intend to remove it."

Adam tried poking at the stone with the time honoured 'just in case' hypothesis in action, replying absently. "I'm fairly sure Darius wouldn't have intended us to demolish the house of God, no."

"Darius? The priest who was found headless..."

"Focus, LeBrun."

"Make no plans to leave the city, M'sieur Pierson."

"I think the quarantine has you covered."

Richie closed in behind them, waited a beat and then continued to pushed his way through. "Okay, I know this one, give the master some room."

Adam found himself obeying the unusual tone of command and decided MacLeod had a great deal to answer for. LeBrun was less affected and stood his ground. "What are you doing?"

"Well, last time a crack led up to a button but I'm guessing this one has the button on the inside so I'm carding the lock."

"Make no plans to leave the city, M'sieur Ryan."

"Oh, please, this is just bad TV."

The credit card was half way in and half way down before there was a faint clicking sound from within the wall. Adam would have felt worse about holding his breath if he hadn't noticed the other two doing exactly the same.

Slowly, Richie withdrew the card and they watched the stone above depress into the wall. The corner stone was hollow, inside was a small pile of bones with the remnants of shroud linen still wrapped in wisps around them.

"Bones." Richie spoke with slightly wild disbelief. Adam had to admit this wasn't exactly what he'd been hoping for either. Something more along the lines of "Stopping Michael For Dummies" would have been appreciated.

"Bones?" LeBrun moved back enough to let some light be cast on the sad little find.

"Little bones." The younger man's hand hovered over them, but didn't touch. "What is it with this city and skulls in weird places?"

"You should visit New Orleans." Adam took LeBrun's place as the man moved to a window where the movement in the courtyard below could be seen. A glance at his expression suggested it wasn't a happy place down there, but he had more pressing concerns. Crouching down to take a better look confirmed his suspicions. "Infant skeleton, new born or close to it."

"Like … the infant that owned the bracelet, you think?"

"Maybe. There isn't anything else?"

Richie looked slightly queasy, Adam wasn't sure how much was affronted ethics and how much the progression of the virus. "I didn't look. _Baby _bones, I'm not going to disturb those."

"Then move over and I'll let LeBrun add grave-robbing to my rap-sheet."

He was given some space to make his search in; it was comforting to know Richie's ethics extended only so far. Despite himself, he handled the remains with respectful care. The bones were brittle and moist, not a good combination, and the material that had contained them – some sort of swaddling, he surmised – fell apart at his touch. He wasn't even sure what he was looking for, only confident that there had to be_ something_.

Finally he found what didn't belong, though it was camouflaged well. Another bracelet but this one was large enough for an adult. It was made of pieces of bone thread around a circle of iron and each of the little round bones - vertebrae, if he was any judge - had a runic symbol carved on it.

"What have you found?" The policeman was leaning over, but not crowding. There was a man who understood the importance of personal space. Or, maybe, he just didn't want to get too close to the infected.

He held up the talisman for LeBrun to see but spoke more for a horrified looking Richie's benefit than anyone else's. "The bones on this aren't human; they're from some kind of small animal. Good way to hide it."

Richie stood, swaying slightly, but finally righted himself with a frown. "Only from people who actually _have_ morals. What's the point of that?"

A few reasons sprang immediately to mind, but he was starting to suspect his chances of second guessing Darius were slim. "I suppose we'll find out."

LeBrun returned to the window, what could be seen of his expression looking increasingly drawn.

After moving in for a closer look at the latest mystery fashion accessory, Richie spoke quietly, studying the bone too intently for comfort. "Anything written on it?"

"Just some patterns." Automatically, he closed his fingers around it.

"Patterns? Looks more like that rune writing Darius used to talk to MacLeod with."

"Does it?"

Richie raised his eyes heavenward and seemed to receive the strength advertised by the location as he managed to keep his patience enough to speak politely. "What does it say?"

"I have no idea."

"Like hell. You're research scholar dead languages guy."

"_Then why does God let evil exist, Priest? Explain this to me."_

"_Who better to protect the innocent?"_

"_Have you been drinking mould again?"_

"_There must be balance in all things, that one might know the other as themselves."_

His fingers felt stiff as he forced them to open again and looked at the symbols, wondering what he could get away with in a translation. "It says 'Death'"

"And?" Richie's foot was actually tapping so Adam surmised he couldn't get away with much at all.

"'Death may be the greatest of all human blessings'. Socrates, I believe."

"That's … not filling me with hope."

Adam had to admit it wasn't sending him dancing through the streets either. The various possible meanings of Darius's frankly appalling pun ran riot through his mind in the two seconds he let them reign, and then he decided they really didn't matter. One thing was clear. "We're done here."

"You know what it means?"

"I think it means Michael can be killed now …" Seeing Richie's relieved expression he was loathe to go on, but it had to be said "… or it doesn't mean anything at all. There was never any guarantee this had anything to do with Doyle. Greta only said Darius wanted Mac to have the bracelet. It's not like there's a user's manual attached."

"Then what are we going to do?"

"Go distract LeBrun, shouldn't be hard, then come find us in the Quarter when you've lost him."

Richie failed to hustle away towards the silent figure who was beginning to take on almost gargoyle-esque grimness. "Are you trying to get rid of me?"

"Why does everyone insist I have Machiavellian ulterior motives? Then _you_ take the bracelets and I'll distract LeBrun."

"Okay." Richie held his hand out for the bracelet and smiled the faint half smile Adam more regularly saw on brooding Scots.

"... Fine, I want to get rid of you."

"You could have just said."

Now it was his own turn to seek inner serenity from the vaulted heavens. "Richie, I would feel much better if you were somewhere safer and keeping LeBrun occupied is an entirely valid but far less potentially lethal task to have."

"No."

"You just..."

"I'm not a kid and I don't think you'd care even if I was."

"Yes, you are."

"And you're Grandfather Time?"

"I …" am the utterance of my name "… have a job to finish. Honestly, I just don't want witnesses."

"See, that I believe."

There was a crashing, splintering sound below and then a booming thunder that echoed through the chapel.

LeBrun turned slightly, straightening his back, the melancholy evaporating under the discipline of iron authority. "Whatever it is you intend to do, M'sieur Pierson, I would recommend you do it now."

He felt himself pushed and looked back towards Richie, who was attempting to usher him towards the side door and the back stairs beyond them. "I'll stay here and do what I can. If Greta … if she …" He paused at the top stair and saw there was no way Richie could articulate what was running through his head.

"I'll take care of her."

One way or another.

Then he was being pushed out and the door was shut hard at his back. The way before him was clear but probably wouldn't remain that way for long. He jumped down them three at a time, ignoring the complaints of his knees and trying to block out the sound of frenzied humanity behind him.

-o-

Greta's breath was a wheeze as they walked and MacLeod knew it was nothing to do with the pace he'd set. Her skin was pale enough to be yellowing in the thin light and two bright fever spots were the only real colour in her cheeks.

It looked like she had a bad case of the 'flu and he wanted to believe that, but even the epidemic after the First World War hadn't caused this sort of panic and emptied the streets.

For the moment his own health was holding fine, he'd never been particularly prone to the various maladies that ran through the world. Cholera, typhoid, small pox – even the seasonal gifts of influenza and colds - they'd all left him untouched. Maybe this would as well, but Greta was obviously not going to be so lucky.

They were nearly at the southern reaches of the Quarter when she doubled over and began to retch into the gutter. He crouched beside her, one arm around her shoulder and a hand holding back her hair. The heaves were almost convulsions and the sharp scent of acid was unmistakably threaded with a coppery tang.

When she regained some control and began to breathe through the last of the tremors he spoke quietly. "Maybe you should stay here."

"I'm okay."

He gently tilted her chin towards the light and saw the pink film gathering over the whites of her eyes. "Your definition of 'okay' is a little unusual."

"Then can I get 'interestingly pale'?" With a slight smile she stood and he kept a hand on her arm to help her balance. When she started walking again, he tried to keep them moving straight as she began to stumble across the pavement.

When she knocked into him for the third time, he stooped to put an arm behind her knees and another behind her shoulders and picked her up like a child. She weighed more than he'd thought she would, a modern woman, strong, solid. Strong, solid and attempting to kick him for the indignity.

"I don't need to be carried." The peevishness in her tone didn't entirely cover her fear, or weakness, but it had a fighting note that he could appreciate.

He was less appreciative when a flailing heel managed to catch him in the ribs. "It's just quicker, all right?" He grinned down at her "You're slowing me down."

"I'm helping you!"

With a careful nod he accepted her argument and replied in the most reasonable tone he could. "So do you want to be important enough to get carried or useless and slowing me down?"

There was a pause and the vicious and underhanded use of logic did its work. "Sure, when you put it like that."

The rain wasn't falling anymore; the wind was almost nothing in the narrow streets. It felt like there was a roof over them, a surreal sensation when he could see grey clouds and a pale yellow sun above. The world was not going to end today. Not like this. "We're going to stop this."

Greta's head bobbed a nod against his arm, her fever tracing an almost scorching line across his chilled skin. She spoke almost lightly, complacent. "I know."

That gave him a surprising uplift of hope and he stopped to look at her again as they reached the last block that could charitably be placed in the Quarter. "_Know_, know?"

Her expression tightened into a slightly sheepish wince. "Well not exactly. I was pretty much going for comfort and denial. You know, optimism?"

"Not lately. I'm not getting anything from Amanda, but I wouldn't if she was ..." His arms were beginning to ache, but he pushed the discomfort to the background as quickly as he did the two obvious reasons Amanda would be unnoticed even if she were within range. "Any ideas?"

"I think we've gone too far from the water."

"Back towards the bridge?"

She nodded and spoke, her tone said 'yes' while her voice said. "Stefan."

The word was muffled against his shirt and it took a moment for him to be sure that, yes, she had just randomly spoken a name. "Who?"

After a moment's silence there was an almost bemused sounding reply. "What?"

"Stefan."

She looked up with what was indeed honest confusion, but he thought he detected a hint of wariness there as well. "What about him?"

"You said the name."

"I did? Are you sure?"

"How else would I …" The eyes were too wide with innocence now, he shook his head with a wry smile. "… you're delaying."

"A little bit. Promise you won't get mad?"

"Why do people keep asking me that? I'm not going to get mad, Greta."

"He's a guy that knows Methos. Kinda. I think he wants to kill him."

He tried to keep his laughter to a minimum to avoid jogging her. "You say that like there's anyone who doesn't. Immortal?"

"Yes, but I don't think he wants to hurt them."

His mind took an abrupt turn again. "He doesn't want to hurt who?"

"Joe and Amanda." It wasn't delaying tactics this time, she had gone again; her eyes were unfocussed, her voice lower and quieter even than before.

He tried to speak as calmly as he could, not wanting to jolt her out of wherever she'd gone. "Stefan was the one who took them?"

"He saved them. He wants Doyle."

That wasn't a yes or a no, but he latched onto the new revelation. "I thought he wanted Adam."

"He can't have both? Don't be so mean to the poor boy, he has enough problems. Just listen to him talk …" Her tone was beginning to gain the absent disinterest that had signalled the complete loss of coherence earlier. He had to keep her on track.

"The Xerxesi took Amanda and Joe, right?"

"Only because he told them to."

"Stefan told them to?"

"Did he?"

"You just said … are you delaying again? If an Immortal has Amanda …"

She looked at him with such complete incomprehension that he thought she'd finally gone, but at last she blinked. When her eyes opened they were hazed, but they'd lost the blankness. "We have to get back to the bridge."

"Then we go back to the bridge."

The ache in his arms had settled into a dull thrumming that he could no longer quite ignore and the less said about his back the better. He made a mental note to start working out with larger weights, or to ask Greta to diet in case he ever had to carry her around Paris again. He let his mind skip over his grocery list, the last set Joe's band had played at Le Blues, anywhere except to the narrowing list of possibilities ahead.

When the hit of Immortality came on the approach to the bridge he nearly stumbled. As he made his way carefully down the steps to the verge he could make out two figures. A few steps closer and the relief of recognition flooded in.

Joe lay propped up against the sparse grass of the bank, beside him a smaller figure that had to be Stefan. The young man rose and stood with the sort of poise boys of his apparent age had no way to possess. A sword was in his hand but there was no sense of imminent attack. Even so, MacLeod drew his katana from inside the folds of his coat after gently placing Greta beside the Watcher.

Keeping one eye on the Immortal, he touched his finger tips to Joe's neck, searching for the pulse. Like the breathing, it was weak and irregular, but it was persistent.

He stood and moved between the two mortals and the still patiently waiting Stefan. "I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

"… good?"

The boy smiled with a polite lack of recognition he was reasonably sure was completely false. It wasn't ego on his part so much as most Immortals seemed to have heard of him – for one reason or another. Fitz, for instance, had ensured there were areas of southern England he probably couldn't set foot in without being laughed at for the next century.

"Get away from him."

Stefan obediently stepped further away from Joe, keeping his blade down. "I do not wish to fight you."

"Amanda?"

"May well wish to fight you, but I think she favoured other prey." The deadpan delivery unnerved him slightly; there was no hint of amusement on the boy's expression, none at all. Even Methos had the kindness to give slight clues. He decided to assume Stefan was completely serious until proven otherwise.

"She's gone after the Xerxesi?"

"I didn't like to ask."

"You're Stefan." It was a statement not a question, which made a change, but it seemed like a good idea to get a verification to go with his assumption.

The other Immortal dipped his head after a short hesitation. "Matt …_ Adam_ mentioned me?"

"No." He decided not to mention who had. Trust was a fragile thing at the best of times and introducing their very own brain spy would probably not help the détente.

"Six centuries I worked on being a ghost and now ... did I miss an announcement?"

He was beginning to see what Greta had quite literally meant when she'd said to listen to Stefan talk; he was using modern words but archaic phrasing, jarring in a way. It suggested he didn't speak to people often enough to get a sense of the times and hadn't done for a long while.

Ghost to everyone.

He let none of his creeping sympathy into his tone, but he ensured the utmost sincerity as he spoke. "It won't get passed around. Are you with them?"

"The Xerxesi? Not really. I join them every century or so as an acolyte, it was as good a place to wait for Adam as any … fortunately for your friends."

"But you didn't tell them to take Amanda and Joe?"

"Because, naturally, they'd listen to a fourteen year old boy."

"It's been a long day. Who is in charge?"

"Doyle, I think."

"… what?" It wasn't his most intelligent response, but that didn't seem to disturb Stefan's thoughtful musing.

"I could be wrong. He wore the bone relic on his wrist to prove he was Vatican sent, but several of the Xerxesi have fallen ill. If it were their true commander, the relic should not have allowed it. And, of course, he is Immortal. I went to the bridge to see if Doyle was where he should be but I was interrupted. When I returned to their base he was gone, but your friends had been placed in the cleansing room."

"You're _sure_ it's Doyle?"

Stefan shrugged. "Of course not, but it is an appealing notion, isn't it? An organisation dedicated to his preservation and containment; surely he would find a way to control it eventually. Otherwise it's like thinking Immortals wouldn't infiltrate the Watchers."

He was looking pointedly towards Joe and MacLeod realised why at the weak cough and croaking voice. "Thanks"

In the instant he returned to the Watcher's side, but already the man was slipping back into unconsciousness.

Briefly he wondered whether he was succumbing as thoughts and theories whirled their way around a mind too exhausted to process much of anything. There was one immediately nagging question.

"If it's not Doyle, who's under the bridge?"

Stefan automatically looked at the spot of water in question and then shrugged. "I have no idea. Is that what Adam was looking for in there? I assumed he'd thrown himself in to escape someone."

"You do know him."

Mirrored half-smiles gave them a shared moment as they both considered the lengths the man would go to in his efforts to stay alive.

Stefan's smile disappeared first, his eyes hard to such a degree it would be impossible to think of him as a child again. "Better, I think, than you."

"Why do you say that?"

"You haven't killed him yet."

"He told me what happened with Doyle and … he's changed."

The tone was utterly flat but Stefan still managed to convey the absolute maximum of uncaring disgust. "Has he?"

He had nowhere near enough time to play Devil's Advocate, especially when he wasn't sure he was on the right side of the argument. "Will you help us?"

"I'll look after these two … my disagreement with Adam does not extend to harming mortals unfortunate enough to know him."

"Greta …" He turned to look at the woman who was staring fixedly at the river.

Only her eyes moved, swivelling to him like a doll's and just as glassy. "He won't harm us."

"Is he lying?"

"All the time."

Stefan made a disquieted sound but he ignored him as Greta closed her eyes and let out a long breath. For a heartbeat he thought she'd given up, but her chest finally rose with a wet stuttering.

"Stay with me, Greta."

Words on a whisper, he leaned closer to catch them. "… going anywhere. I'm right here, watching the bodies go by." Her voice strengthened like a guttering candle flaring. "Place Saint-Michel. Amanda went …"

MacLeod swallowed and stood as she subsided again. "I'll be right back … Stefan …" A request and a warning was in his tone and he didn't have to finish. The Immortal gave a salute with his sword, the model of a gentleman.

"They will come to no harm. On my honour, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

He nodded. "Thank you. Adam and another Immortal – Richie - are going to be coming this way, let them know where I've gone."

Stefan murmured an assent but MacLeod was already striding towards Place Saint-Michel, trying not to consider the irony.


	11. Part 11

An Immortal presence pinged on Adam's radar from the moment he left Cite, guiding him down to the southern bank of the river. Despite the excellent chance it was MacLeod, caution made him unsheathe his sword once he made it to the verge by the water.

Greta and Joe were easily visible, neither of them were moving and the scene under the bridge was one he was quite sure Stefan had set up to be as exact as possible.

There, the woman; one arm across her chest and the other fallen to her side, fingers curled to the sky. There, the man; straighter in repose with both arms crossed over his chest like the stone effigy guarding a knight's tomb.

_There, their adopted child, his own student; standing watch over their last moments and, finally, giving mercy when their pain grows too great for them to bear._

_Now a boy before him in the street. His father's sword is still awkward in his hand and Carolina's justice, Methos' vengeance, is breaking his world. No tears, but the heavens opened for the sake of pity and Methos had seen this face a hundred times before. He'd killed it a hundred times before._

"_You, you did this."_

"_I did this."_

"_Why?"_

"_Why not?"_

"_Your head is mine."_

"_You cannot beat me, not in a thousand years."_

"_One thousand years, we are agreed."_

"_We are agreed"_

_He'd laughed._

He'd laughed and the echo of it made bile rise, he couldn't go back to being that man.

Stefan was looking at him almost expectantly, a vicious joy rising unchecked in the boy's eyes. The lapse into memory the tableau had been designed to provoke had not been missed, but he didn't allow the guilt into his gaze and Stefan searched for it in vain. When calculated interest gave way to a hint of disappointment and then the usual cold disdain, Adam judged it safe to speak.

"Stefan."

"Adam." A pause, then a slight smile as eyes returned to search his face almost like the child looking for approval, wanting their efforts to be noticed. "See how I watch over your friends?"

He wasn't going to make a concession and let memory flagellate him anymore than it had already, Stefan should know better than to push for it again, but Adam nodded fractionally to let him know the barb had been recognised, even if it hadn't hit. It hadn't hit. "Yes, I see. And MacLeod?"

Now Stefan relaxed, returning to the impassive expression more fitting his actual age. "MacLeod went after Amanda."

"Who went where?" He knew there was no point in trying to circumvent the word play; it would get him there no faster. Stefan would reach his point in his own time and, unless the boy had changed significantly, he would do it before it was too late. His mind kindly pointed out it had been he himself who had mentioned how much people _could _change over time.

"Who can say where a woman goes?"

Patience abruptly discovered its limits, despite his best intentions, and he snapped out the words. "That would be you."

Stefan smiled as if claiming 'check'. Possibly he was. "I agreed to help them, not you."

The notion this was some kind of karmic punishment for playing word games of his own for so long occurred to Adam. He dismissed it as too cruel and unusual, even for a universe that had decided he was some kind of cosmic cat toy.

He returned to following the lines he had all but been given in the impromptu pantomime. "Help me and you're helping them."

"How badly do you want to save them?" The sudden intensity in the tone gave him pause, made him question which way Stefan had intended the script to go from here. Some mockery, some power play, that he had expected but Stefan's hand was tighter around his sword now and he took a firmer grip of his own, still inside his coat.

"Stefano, we don't have time for this."

"We have all the time in the world, they have somewhat less."

He couldn't read the expression and that was enough to make him even more wary. Now he had no road map at all, he had to guess, really guess, the intentions and that was the most dangerous game of all.

The blade was still low but it was closer to Joe and Greta than he would have liked. "Them for your family, is that it? A little old to play tit-for-tat, aren't we?"

Stefan smiled, but the blade didn't move. "_I_ am not a monster, Adam. _I_ do not make the innocent suffer."

"Then don't do this." The Ivanhoe's hilt was in his hand and he barely realised he was raising it until the tip was weaving before him. Stefan moved fractionally into a ready stance, away from the mortals but still close enough to pose a threat.

"I asked you a simple question. How badly do you want to save them? Enough to kill? Take my head and there'll be no one to look after them."

Then he saw. It was almost a mirror of the tactics he'd used on MacLeod to manoeuvre him into refusing to take his head when Kalas came looking. Stefan was trying to force him to show his hand, doubtless MacLeod or Amanda had told the boy how very much Adam had changed, and now he wanted to see it for himself.

Of course, he could also be hoping Adam would assume that and … the double think began to hurt his mind. Abruptly, it ceased to matter as Joe gave a weak cough that somehow sounded worse than any other for its quietness.

The answer remained the same, in any case. "Badly enough not to." He crouched slowly and put the sword at his feet, then stood with his hands slightly raised. Stefan's eyes tracked from his to the now uncovered bone talisman on Adam's wrist, then back.

"You think I won't take your head?"

'No you won't, Stefan, because you're inexplicably still exercising honour. Do you have any Scots in your ancestry?' No, perhaps not. He decided to take a more diplomatic tack.

"I think you're a good … man and, I think, you know that you can't kill Doyle."

"But you can? Your MacLeod can?"

"He's not my …" Stefan's eyebrow rose at his slightly heated response and he paused in mid-denial to answer the question. "Maybe, but he doesn't have the right tools."

"And you do."

There was just enough hope in the flat disbelief to give fuel to his sincerity as he replied. "Yes."

"Le Blues, midnight a week from now."

"Assuming I'm not unavoidably deceased."

"Your oath."

"This is familiar."

"Give it."

"You wouldn't like me when I give my oath. I'll be there, Stefan."

The boy's eyes tracked back to the bone bracelet and the question rose in his eyes again. After weighing it for a moment, he spoke. "Why are you wearing the relic?"

Hardly daring to believe that he might possibly have been given a break, Adam looked down at the bracelet, then over to Stefan. "This? I found it hidden in Sainte Chapelle."

"The Xerxesi have one too."

"What does theirs do?" He hardly wanted to ask, knowing there was no way he could look unconcerned. If Stefan wanted power, this was the way he could truly take it.

And for a long moment he thought the boy intended to hold it over him. Then, at last, looked down at the mortals he had been given charge of. "It protects them from Michael." Then he looked back, eyes black sockets and skin too white from the tricks of the shadows of the bridge. "What does yours do, Mattio?"

The image of death cleared with a blink. "That … is very much the question."

There was a slow nod and then in a fluid movement, Stefan returned to kneeling beside Joe and Greta, the sword placed carefully at his side. "Saint-Michel, Seine side."

Without comment Adam stooped to pick up his own sword, but only closed his coat around it when he had climbed the verge to the top of the bridge once more.

His footsteps were echoed sharply by the sides of the buildings, there being no traffic – human or mechanical – to smother the sound. North of the river, he was sure, it would not be so empty. There were the hospitals and services, expensive shops to loot perhaps, if the rioting went out of control. Here there was precious little but culture and that was little to no comfort in the midst of a plague.

Still, there were some signs of life: windows flickered, televisions perhaps. People were behind the brick walls in a self-imposed isolation. Soon they'd venture out, when their food was gone and imminent starvation made it worth the risk. Then the streets would spring to life once more and, somehow, life would go on amidst hazmat suits and quarantine tape and death.

Life always went on. It had to, it was its function. There was no way he would be able to explain that to MacLeod, though, and he didn't want to have to.

Stefan's presence had barely stopped ringing in his mind before he walked straight into another that grew with every step. Turning the corner into Saint-Michel, he was unsurprised to see MacLeod standing a foot away from the wall of a building. He was slightly more puzzled by the way he was craning his head to look up at the ornate façade.

As he drew closer he could feel another surge of Immortality, and then another. It was an almost dizzying sensation as his body attempted to compensate by running even more adrenaline through him. It was helping mask the sickness' progression through him, but he'd pay more when it was done.

MacLeod didn't turn from his upwards study of the building. "Did you find anything?"

"Yes." He nodded and found he didn't want to put his theory into words, not least because, out loud, it would be made of mist and webs and ephemera that was barely credible a thousand years ago. Instead he chose another topic close to the Scotsman's heart. "Amanda?"

"In there, I think. With Doyle, maybe."

"And yet I don't hear screaming."

They regarded the still quiet building with identically thoughtful expressions. It was unreal, they'd spent days running around over this to end up here, in a moment of unhurried contemplation of Amanda's probable activities.

Finally MacLeod spoke into the silence, still carefully level toned. "Maybe she's being subtle."

"I'm not convinced she's ever met the word. Why do you think Doyle's in there?"

Something skittered across the street and Adam realised why MacLeod was placed as he was at last. It was a red target light emanating, presumably, from a rifle on the upper floor of the building. Experimentally, he moved further away from MacLeod and the safety of the wall and saw it immediately begin to follow. Quickly, he returned out of its range.

A sniper then, but only one. A fairly poor show tactically speaking, but perhaps they no longer had the manpower to cover both sides of the street. That was a blessing in disguise. Heavy disguise.

Now MacLeod looked at him and spoke conversationally. "Stefan thinks Doyle is in charge of the Xerxesi."

The mild tone had no apparent interest in what it was saying, MacLeod's attention returned to the building.

Adam replied as he waited for MacLeod to decide how they would proceed. "That would explain them trying to kill us. I suppose we can but hope."

"Hope?"

"Call it a demonstration of situational irony. If he's not in there or at the bottom of the river, we don't know where he is."

"Good point."

"And well made." They spoke the words together in rote and almost managed a smile.

"Where's Richie?"

"Helping LeBrun keep Sainte Chapelle in one piece."

"You gave him a distraction." There was actually some appreciation there and, given what they were walking into, he understood why MacLeod wouldn't want his student there. Still, he didn't want to do Ryan a complete disservice. Well, didn't want to as long as there was a chance it could back to bite him later anyway.

"Amusingly, no. He's playing the hero very convincingly, you'd be proud." There was activity on the lower floor now; they sidled along the side of the wall to take up position either side of the solid double doors that were the entrance. "I'll try and find where Doyle is, you get Amanda out."

"After all the objecting, you want him now? You do know what an oath is, right?"

"Ha. Ha."

The door opened an inch and as one they moved in to take the mile. MacLeod swung around in a back kick to the lock set into the solid wood and Adam could hear something crunching in an unpleasant fashion on the other side. He'd attributed it to the wood, but the shrill scream suggested bone.

He pushed through; forgoing the Ivanhoe for the comforting weight of the 9mm he just happened to carry for just such emergencies. The fact that leaving the apartment constituted an emergency more often than not was irrelevant.

The second man further inside hesitated over who to shoot just long enough for him to be taken out by an uppercut that MacLeod barely slowed down to deliver.

No one tried to stop them as they sprinted across a small inner courtyard and into the main building. The buzz of Immortals was so strong and close they ceased to have any sense of separation. It didn't matter; they could hear the echoing clash of swords meeting.

"I'll take care of him; you get Amanda out of here." MacLeod spoke in the tone of command Adam usually obeyed as the path of least resistance, but not this time.

"No, if it's Doyle she's fighting I want him."

"You hate Challenges." MacLeod glared with the sort of full righteous indignation that never failed to make him strangely endearing, in an obnoxiously repetitive sort of way. It was like nostalgia for an irritating dog that never stopped barking, really.

Possibly the fever was taking more of a hold than he'd realised. Still, Adam tried to explain his position. "This isn't a Challenge, it's just …" MacLeod looked over at him expectantly and he used the only word that came to mind. "… right." The word tasted unfamiliar, he wanted to cringe at all the heroic connotations it contained.

Thankfully, MacLeod provided a cynical insulin. "For you or him?"

"Flip a coin."

"You're not telling me something. Again."

"Your powers of deduction are as astute as ever."

The sound of the fight got louder as they hunted through the marble-floored halls of the unfamiliar building. There was a slightly monastic style to the decorations, simple and minimal, despite the fact it wasn't Holy ground. The Xerxesi foot soldiers may have been drawn from the services but he was willing to bet those that commanded them were Ordained.

Even unseen, there were certain clues to be gathered from the rhythm of the swords meeting – or lack there of. Exchanges were short and sporadic and, when metal met metal, it did it in a fashion that scraped rather than struck.

One practised but not natural swordsman – or woman, he suspected – and one just about competent enough to defend, or one who was playing before they struck.

Finally they came on the Challenge at the other end of the long hall they burst into. He was almost swung fully around as MacLeod's sudden halt and hold on his arm abruptly stopped their headlong run. "What did Darius hold over you, what's going to happen if you break the oath?"

He looked down at the fingers gripping his coat. Blunt nails, one of them looked bitten. He wasn't sure why that surprised him. Time must have passed because MacLeod was asking again, quietly. That was nice. He ran a hand over his face and tried to regain a little focus. It would just be embarrassing to keel over now. "You know what they say, 'don't open old wounds … don't open fourth seals …'"

"I don't understand."

"_Good_."

MacLeod's short, low, laugh surprised him - as much for response as for the fact there was actual amusement under the bitterness. "You know what? I give up. Just tell me whatever it was isn't there any more and, if you can manage it, try not to lie."

"I don't think it matters now. I'm not sure it ever mattered, frankly. He probably thought he was very wise, knowing I wouldn't break the oath until I was …"

He didn't realise he'd stopped with his mouth still half open until MacLeod prompted him. "Until you were …?"

Then he snapped his mouth shut and grimaced. Darius had played him. Completely. Utterly. Like the London Symphony tackling the 1812 Overture.

"Until I was the sort of person who wouldn't need it to bind them." Bastard. "... well I'm going to kill him."

"I think you're a little late."

"I was talking about Michael. Mostly."

MacLeod looked as if he were having second thoughts now; he was as able to interpret the sound of the fight as anyone else. Amanda would probably win. "The Challenge has started, we can't interfere. You don't have to do this."

"That's a courtesy, MacLeod, not a rule. He's not hers to take and, anyway, she's not protected." He held up his arm and jangled the bone bracelet, then shook off the restraining hand and walked further into the high-windowed hall.

There was Amanda, he took no time to study her condition because _there_ was Michael.

Black jeans, black t-shirt, Doyle's attire was inconsequential. The man himself was utterly unchanged, even down to the dark shoulder length hair and an almost cherubic full face that wouldn't have been out of place on one of Raphael's angels. Unfortunately, he was the Old Testament kind of angel; the sort that killed the first born and destroyed cities.

As the gun was already in his hand, Adam felt it would be a shame not to use it.

Two bullets impacted into Michael's chest. The man dropped immediately, not even having the chance to see who'd killed him. Amanda stepped back; finally registering there was an audience.

Her mouth opened, then closed, Adam waited patiently for her to work out whether she wanted to be outraged or pleased. MacLeod had no such problems and made a snatch for the gun. "You _shot_ him."

"Twice." He agreed and hung on to it, twisting away victorious after a brief and undignified scuffle.

Amanda stalked forward. She didn't look her best, damp all over, mussed and grimy. A faint smell of Seine completed the picture. "I wanted his head!"

"Well, you can't have it." He fended off another attempt on the gun and then put another bullet into Michael's chest as the rush of Revival arrived. It promptly left again. "We all have these little trials. Go play with his minions."

She crossed her arms and scowled as if the Xerxesi had been created purely to ruin her day. Given the state of her, he had to admit it was a possibility. "They're the good guys. Besides, they're sick." One no longer perfectly manicured hand waved upwards to the second floor and, presumably, the living quarters.

Adam tried and failed to find any spare compassion and discovered his well entirely dry which was, at least, better than poisoned. "Suffering is good for their souls. Besides, I question their competency if they failed to notice their new boss was the man they were supposed to be keeping contained."

MacLeod's tone was bland. "You mean like the Watchers not noticing the man researching Methos was actually Methos?"

Temporarily without a comeback, Adam fired at Michael again.

"Will you stop shooting him!" MacLeod's ire was diverted as a man came into the hall at a run. He was carrying what looked like an AK-47 but he was slow and clearly in pain, one arm held tight around his midsection.

Their attacker didn't even have time to fire a single burst before the submachine gun was plucked from his hands by a Scotsman who was smiling with no detectable trace of humour whatsoever. "Henri! How're the ribs?"

Amanda moved closer as MacLeod hauled the startled man up by the collar. He gasped once and then began to murmur a fast and desperate chant. Adam recognised the beginning - "_Crux sancta sit mihi lux_" – but the Highlander shook him again and the prayer ended.

"Meet Michael Doyle, your own personal plague bringer." Bodily Henri was turned to look at the man on the floor. Methos shot Michael again on principle.

"… _no_ …" The choked word was horrified, but not shocked and MacLeod dropped Henri back to his feet.

"You _knew_ he wasn't under the bridge!" Amanda stepped forward and the Xerxesi stepped back accordingly in the face of her anger.

"Suspicion only, I swear to you. When the city began to sicken, I thought our rites had been wrong."

"Why did you take us? Joe could have died."

"Our commander", Henri's gaze slid to Michael, "_he_ said you and the man had tainted the rites and ordered a cleansing."

"Your _commander_ is probably the man you threw off the bridge. Did it occur to you that there were better kinds of identification than holy relics?"

"He came from Rome, he had papers, and he was expected. It was he who told us where Michael could be found…"

"_Why_ all this stupidity at all? Science …"

Henri began to regain his composure and drew himself up to spit out the word. "Science? What place does _science_ have here? Five hundred years our rites have been practised with faith and faith has sufficed to cleanse those the devil claims."

Amanda's voice came from a distance, as if she were trying to separate herself from her words. "Your rites are cleansing rites. You put them in water and then … a good Christian burial."

Henri's eyes widened as if affronted at the thought they would do anything else. "Of course, we are not monsters."

They didn't know Michael Doyle was an Immortal. The thought clamoured in Adam's head. It could happen so easily. Say a couple of hundred years and, somehow, Michael was released from the river. By then the Xerxesi had forgotten they had to keep him down there, everyone that had first hand knowledge would be dead and fact would be superstition in an instance. They throw the body over, tie it down, wait a decent time, then bring it back up and bury it. Maybe the cleansing even worked for a while, but then it wore out and …

How many generations had they been letting Michael go? His mind fled the thought.

He spoke from his crouch at Michael's side. "The bracelets are the same."

When all eyes had turned to him, he held up his wrist with the bracelet recovered at Sainte Chapelle, then Michael's wrist. On it was an almost identical bracelet.

MacLeod frowned, Amanda spoke, neither of them looked as if they'd been enlightened. "They're the same?"

He pulled down his cuff to cover his bracelet but kept Michael's in view. "Not quite … these bones are human - I suspect from an infant who was interred in the wall of the Chapelle. The inscriptions match on both, 'Death may be the greatest of all human blessings'."

However long he squinted at them, the runes refused to reform and give a hint to their purpose. A numbered diagram was probably too much to hope for as well. As an afterthought, he shot Michael again.

It was Amanda who slowly spoke, Amanda with both feet firmly planted in the now, but one urchin finger still keeping its hold on a past of superstitions and hearth rituals. "All right … so relics, talismans … they're to keep you safe. Protected."

MacLeod nodded. "The human bones one is meant to keep the Xerxesi well. Guess it doesn't work when it's _Michael wearing it_." He shot a hard look at Henri. "But that doesn't make any sense, they're just old bones."

Adam smiled slightly. "And the spring was just water, Mac. Maybe it's time for a little faith. Maybe if that kept people safe from him, this will …" What? There was no real way to know what its purpose was. He trailed away, fingering the animal-bone talisman on his wrist. It was smooth and slightly warm, but there was a decided lack of holy aura and he failed to be filled with a sense of divine protection.

Maybe it was just slow in the mornings. He raised his sword above his head, lining up with Michael's neck.

MacLeod jumped forward again. "You can't just cut his head off."

"Sorry, you're quite right. Everyone else will want to leave the room."

"That's not what I meant."

"He's killed tens of thousands and you want me to give him a fair fight?"

"Maybe we need to keep him alive for people to get well again … anyway, no one deserves to end it like that."

"… you have to be joking."

"Then give me the bracelet and I'll fight him."

MacLeod stood with his hand out and it was tempting …

_The orchards were blooming in reds and pinks with the promise of fruit in the months to come, the green vines were slowly deepening in colour as their harvests of grapes and olives grew upon them._

_In the winter he buried her there, under the clouds and amidst the barren trees._

… for less than a heartbeat.

Adam put the Ivanhoe carelessly over his shoulder and stepped back. "He'll need a sword."

As Michael began to stir, he narrowly avoided the reflex to just shoot him again. Instead he handed the gun to MacLeod with exaggerated politeness, then turned back to the man rising to his feet.

"Michael."

"Mattio."

The gaze meeting his wasn't knowing, it wasn't even wary, nor amused. It waited with something close to animal curiosity.

He wondered how much the man would be willing to divulge about the nature of the bracelets. You couldn't threaten him; he didn't truly believe he could die. You couldn't bargain if you didn't know what he wanted. Did he even want anything?

Was Michael even aware of what the bracelets on their wrists were? He hadn't been fully hinged in the first place and it didn't look like centuries of being corralled and thrown in rivers had helped his mental state a great deal.

It had to be worth a try. "Xerxes wanted to help you."

Michael tilted his head to the right, mindless cunning looking for an angle or escape, eyes bright and watchful like a cat's. "For my blood. The body and the blood."

"I'm fairly sure you're not the Messiah. Henri? No?" He looked to the mortal, who shook his head numbly, then back to Doyle. "No. Sorry."

His mouth was running on auto, his brain was circling a single point – this could end now.

"Spare me and I will cure those you love."

"They wouldn't pay that price."

"Spare me and …"

He didn't wait to hear the rest, cutting across. "Where is your Master?"

Michael stepped back, head canted to the left now, half unsure and half recognising a final exchange when he heard one. The man's sword rose to a ready defence. "With regret, I have no Master."

He smiled and knew the smile made Michael a liar.

Their blades met, not the crisp ring of one-handed swords but the bruising solidity of bastard swords. The hilt jumped in his hand and sent a shock wave to his shoulders. Already his breathing quickened, rasping but even, waking up muscles to obey the command of instinct.

Everything beyond his reach ceased to have meaning, there was only the sword and the man before him and it was sweet to feel the blood ready to be spilled.

He sent his blade down to the hilt of Michael's Dagesse, sliding on a metallic whine that would become a scream with just a little more pressure, then spun as the man instinctively flinched away and slammed the pommel hard into the now unguarded back.

His head felt light, detached. Clinically he knew it was the fever taking a hold but it didn't matter. This was what he was built for, long before the Gathering's children made their rules and practised their drills this had been his art and no one could understand that, not Michael, not Darius, not Greta or Joe or Amanda or MacLeod. Not even Kronos.

How could they? They weren't Death.

His knife was in his hand and waiting. It had always been there. It always been waiting. Main gauche style, it took and deflected the clumsy back hand slash from Michael and he disdained the easy opening provided to dance back with a low laugh.

Michael steadied himself into a wide-footed balance, sword weaving low before it flicked up, trying to snake under a deceptively weak guard. Adam waited until a gleam of triumph lit up the man's eyes before crossing dagger and sword to trap the blade.

He kicked a foot out to land hard in Michael's gut and disarmed him with a wrench.

Seconds had past, he knew, and it wasn't enough. He wanted to give the man back his sword and entreat him to fight harder, to prove his worthiness to live.

The words came out of history as Michael begged and warned in the same breath.

"Kill me and become me."

Methos bought the Ivanhoe up high before him to let its shadow form a sinner's cross, then reversed his grip and the blade was singing as he swung it in an arc. The resistance of Michael's neck was barely felt in the momentum.

"I will never be you."

The sound of the body dropping to his side was heard but his gaze sought out MacLeod. The man's eyes were wide as he backed away from the range of the blue fire that was already coursing over the floor and walls.

From the safety of the doorway, MacLeod watched Methos fall to his knees under the onslaught of the Quickening. He could feel the pure quintessence of life thrumming around him and even that minor echo of it made his skin itch.

The briefness of the fight had left him stunned. Michael had not been a good swordsman, even Richie would have had little problem. But it was the efficiency that had unnerved him. Methos had effected an execution as sure as if he'd taken the head while Michael was dead, as he'd wanted.

And it _had_ been Methos fighting, that he was sure of. Not Adam, not 'The Old Man', who was just another version of Adam in a way.

It had been a five thousand year old Immortal who had long since stopped handling a sword as an extension of himself and become an extension of the sword instead. Then again, the fight had been brief. Too brief to be sure of anything.

There was a crackling pop as the last of the lightening earthed, Henri's ragged breathing and that was all.

At last Amanda cleared her throat and spoke tentatively. "Are you feeling … plaguey?"

Adam raised his head to look sardonically at her. "If you mean 'do I feel like the walking incarnation of Pestilence', I wouldn't know. If you mean 'have I succumbed to Dark Quickening', not to my knowledge. If, on the other hand, you mean 'do I still have symptoms' … yes. He didn't take it with him."

MacLeod held out a hand, Adam took and hauled himself back to his feet.

The Highlander looked as if he were trying very hard not to be devastated. "So that's it? People are just going to die, and that's it? What was the point?"

"Plague happens. People die." Despite the callousness of his words, Adam softened his tone.

"No, I refuse to accept that." MacLeod looked around the hall as if the answer might suddenly appear before him. "Darius must have known _something_. What about the exorcism rite on the bracelet?"

Adam tried to regain some of his equilibrium; he was in no fit state to deal with playing Devil's Advocate for an unhappy ending. "What about it? Darius didn'thave the answer for everything, he wasn't infallible. He was just a man who did his best."

"He managed to orchestrate all of this, didn't he? He knew, Methos, you can't tell me he didn't know." MacLeod whirled back towards him and Adam backed up a step at the sheer determination, the fire he envied so much it burned him. "Darius had dreams, didn't he? Prophecy. He knew the Xerxesi would fail, he knew a seer would find the bracelet and …."

"Really? You'd think he'd have written something down." He stepped forward, fighting down the urge to start a shoving match. The Quickening still trying to settle was giving him energy he didn't have and anger he couldn't remember how to handle. "We can't do _anything_."

They were standing shouting at each other and somewhere along the way, Adam realised, he'd become just as devastated as MacLeod.

"The talismans." Amanda spoke shakily into the sudden silence, Adam turned to look at her. Her eyes were slightly wide, her stance a finely tuned fight or flight.

MacLeod spoke quietly. "What about it?"

"It protected the Xerxesi. And the other one, it protected Adam, didn't it?"

Adam considered the frustration-born fury that was currently urging him to violence. "Allegedly."

After a moment MacLeod continued the train of thought. "And there's the bangle that Greta found. Maybe that's Darius's note."

They looked at each other for a moment before Amanda shrugged slightly and looked away and Adam thoughtfully looked down at Michael's body. "So you're saying …"

MacLeod nodded shortly. "We wrap his body up, put it under the bridge with the bracelets then perform an exorcism."

"You realise this is ridiculous?"

The man looked up bleakly. "Do we have anything, anything at all, to lose?"

"Fine. Here." Adam took the bone talisman from his wrist, then pulled the other from Michael's arm and handed both other. That done, he began to roll the corpse in the rug it had fallen on. MacLeod took the other end and they lifted the bundle between them.

At least the walk to the bridge was short and the streets were clear. The procession was funereally quiet; Adam tried to think the least respectful thoughts possible to compensate for even that slight dignity the corpse was being afforded.

They reached the spot where Stefan still stood guard over Greta and Joe in short order; he wondered whether MacLeod was going to use Michael's blood on them. It looked as if MacLeod were considering that too. Finally the man simply checked on their condition and then returned to the side of the river and spoke quietly. "What are the words?"

"What words?" Nonplussed, Adam let his honest confusion show, not overly wanting to be accused of being difficult.

MacLeod crouched and began unwrapping the body. "To the exorcism."

"Do I _look_ like a priest?" Adam turned to look at Amanda, who was doing a remarkable job of hovering busily while not actually having to deal with the corpse. "Get Henri."

MacLeod studied the water as they waited on Amanda's return. "We're going to have to tie him down there."

"I am not going swimming again."

"Yes, you are. We'll need to get whoever's been stuck in there as well, they shouldn't just be left."

Their conversation was interrupted as Stefan approached. The boy stopped a few feet away, looked at the rug dispassionately, then back to Adam. "I felt the lightening. I'm pleased you're not dead."

Well, wasn't that sweet. "I couldn't miss our appointment." He grimaced then looked over towards the mortals under the bridge. "How are they?"

"Greta is convinced the river flows with the dead. She exaggerates, there has only been two bodies. Joe is not conscious and there is blood in his sweat. I can ensure he doesn't suffer, if you wish. It is a service I have granted before, after all."

"No."

The boy smiled politely as MacLeod's refusal. "Of course."

"Amanda's bringing a man to perform an exorcism; I'd appreciate it if you can help him." There was something understandably unfriendly in the Highlander's gaze as he gave Stefan his marching orders, but the boy remained unfailingly courteous as he gave a small bow and followed the route Amanda had taken.

MacLeod was first into the water and Adam briefly considered leaving him to it but then realised the chances were good of dying in there. That would give him a perfectly valid reason for not having to witness the aftermath of the failure this was undoubtedly going to be.

He slid into the green-black water, took a breath and submerged himself. Unfortunately, it was somewhat easier to bring the body up than he'd imagined it would be. MacLeod was able to unhook the tarp from its base before Adam had even swum over and between the two of them they were able to tow the wrapped body to the side.

When they were finally on the verge and he'd managed to hack up enough red distained water from his lungs to speak, he looked over to MacLeod. "Do you know who it is?"

The man shook his head and covered the face of the body with the tarp again. It was incredible. People were falling over all around him and MacLeod was genuinely sad over the death of a complete stranger.

He would have tried to work out if he was amused or intrigued but already he was being pushed back towards the water and he decided he was just cold.

The rug-wrapped Michael was easy enough to set in position to anchor to the bottom but Adam found his fingers simply wouldn't obey his efforts to tie the knots on the rope. He was concentrating so hard the cold claimed him before he noticed.

One moment he was mentally cursing the entire universe, particularly the part that invented ropes, and the next he was on land. Recent events caught up in his mind almost immediately, details justifying in the reason for a nagging sense of despondency on waking.

He was cold and the familiar pins and needles of Revival stabbed as he moved, but death had at least cured him of the virus and that felt wonderful. Squinting up he could see Henri, Stefan and Amanda on the bridge above, the grey cloud swept sky framed them.

Words in a familiar cadence fell down to him, a Latin prayer to drive out the demons. Glittering particles were falling slowly down to the water, reminding him of those that had escaped the sewer and danced in the streetlight. For a second he had the unlikely thought that they were the same, but then realised Henri was throwing, almost sowing, salt into the water.

Henri at last made the sign of the cross in a fluidly sweeping motion and bowed his head. Adam mouthed the 'Amen', then turned his head to look under the bridge. Joe and Greta were still there, MacLeod was crouched at their side.

Carefully he bought himself to his feet and walked towards them without speed. He sat beside MacLeod and watched the mortals' laboured breathing; the man gave no acknowledgment of his presence.

He didn't know what say, wasn't sure if words were even appropriate. "I'm … sorry." That seemed safe enough but it was still a nerve wracking moment until MacLeod responded.

"We have to get them to a hospital."

"I'll go find a car." It was a strange relief to have something constructive to do, Adam scrambled to his feet only to be bought up sharply by Greta moving suddenly.

She sneezed twice, blinking rapidly, then coughed into her hand. It wasn't the wet sound he remembered and gently he took her hand, opening it palm up. No blood.

Equally carefully, he touched his fingertips to Joe's damp forehead. Fever hot, but not the burning he knew meant death was imminent. There was no trace of blood.

The Highlander was looking at him, so clearly trying to fight down hope and equally clearly losing that he didn't have the heart to keep him waiting. He grinned.

"Mac … try and resist the urge to say 'I told you so'".


	12. Epilogue

Adam would have objected over the metamorphosis of his apartment into a hospital for the sick and irritating but his throat was too sore and, by the time it had stopped trying to do an impression of sandpaper, it was too late. Death hadn't been enough, no, he then had to catch a cold from the enforced dips in the Seine.

Joe, as the worst affected, had taken over the main bed. For Greta, MacLeod had unceremoniously turfed out all the papers and research notes from the guest room and unearthed another bed. Richie had joined her and Adam had decided to avoid the room in case nauseating displays of affection were also catching.

Amanda, despite having a cold at the very worst, took possession of the couch. This left him with an old chair with stealth springs he was reasonably sure were only biding their time before claiming his head.

The only bright point was MacLeod's continued failure to catch anything. While it had initially led to the Scot being roundly, and rightly, cursed by all, they'd soon discovered the advantages of having an indentured servant.

Everyone was finding almost anything else to talk about other than recent events, which suited him perfectly. News reports held it was a mutated 'flu virus and there had been blessedly few fatalities; order had been restored with surprising speed.

Or maybe it wasn't that surprising.

Richie's voice called from the guestroom, he felt the croak was perhaps a little overdone but after two days of being run ragged, MacLeod probably wouldn't notice. "Tissues!"

On its tail came Joe's, more convincing, rasp from the main bed. "Cough syrup"

He called out as MacLeod attempted to go in two directions at once. "Morphine"

A low mutter from the man warmed his heart. "I hate you all."

Still, this gave him the perfect opportunity. While MacLeod disappeared into the guestroom, possibly to force feed Richie a box of tissues, Adam stood and quietly retrieved his packed bag from the closet, congratulating himself yet again on the wisdom of keeping one to hand at all times.

The apartment door opened quietly and he stepped into the hall, only to find he couldn't pull the door closed again behind him. After a short tug of war, MacLeod pulled it back and leant against the frame.

"Where are you going?" The man's tone was careful; they'd been _careful_ with each other since the crisis was over. It was worse than being glared at, much worse.

"The bakery?"

MacLeod looked down, then up once more with something that wasn't quite a smile but was closer than it had been. He hadn't asked any more questions but then he hadn't had the time, playing Florence Nightingale to his Clan. It was better to leave while that was still the case, before questions he couldn't answer ensured trust could never be regained.

"That excuse didn't work the first time, what makes you think it's going to work when you're actually carrying a suitcase?"

"Well, at this point it has tradition on its side." The MacLeod eyebrow raised and Adam rolled his eyes. "I'm trying to decide whether to flee the country or just the city."

"Why?"

Here he could be utterly honest, the trick was not to be completely truthful. "I told Stefan I'd meet him soon."

"That's bad?"

"He wants my head, so I'm inclined to think so." He shrugged to show recognition that his perspective on the matter was somewhat subjective.

"You can beat him."

"That's beside the point. I can fight him, MacLeod. I just don't want to."

"So you're going to run again."

"Of course."

"Then leave the country."

He'd braced for scathing disappointment, but that seemed a little harsh. "Charming."

With a real smile, MacLeod held up a key he must have had in his palm since opening the door.

"Hit the gym. Don't give the manager any hassle and don't drink all my beer."

They watched each other for a long moment before Adam reached forward to take the offered key, aware of how pathetically hesitant he must have looked.

Finally he tucked it away and grinned, Adam Pierson settling back over him.

"You know, life is like an empty bottle of beer."

MacLeod jerked his thumb back inside the apartment. "Joe said something about it leaving a lingering taste of bitterness."

Methos pretended to think, raising his eyes and turning them to meet the other man's. "It's green and slightly see-through." He grinned and called over his shoulder as he walked away. "See you around, MacLeod."


End file.
